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JACOB BEOWN 



AND OTHER POEMS 



By HENRY T. STANTON 

AUTHOR or "the moneyless man-, and OTIlr.K lOEMS' 



CINCINNATI 

ROBERT CLARKE & CO 

1875 

On 




I- a 



^•^ 



33 . 



Entered according- to Act of Congress, in the year 1S75, by 

HENRY T STANTON, 
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. 

Stereotyped by Ogden, Campbell & Co., Cir.c'.nnati . 



PREFACE, 



If any apology is necessary for the gathering together of these 
articles in verse, it should come from another source than the 
author. Those who have honored me by reading \r\y first vol- 
ume Avill discover a marked dilTerence in the character of the two 
books and it may be to my prejudice with some of them ; but 
a close observation has taught me that humor is more graciously 
received bj- the general reader than mere fine sentiment. If any- 
thing in these pages shall leave an impression that I have in- 
dulged a less worthy spirit, it must be regarded as growing out 
of an inability to make myself clearly understood. I have con- 
ceived no satire. I have given no individuality or special direc- 
tion to any line in the book, and those who know me best will 
readily acquit me c f any dosJL^n to be other than amiable and 
delicate in every allusion. 

My inclination h;ts been, and still is to a far different accom- 
plishment, but like most persons who love music, some songs 
I sing for myself and some for the audience. These are for 
those who like them. 

HENRY T. STANTON. 

(iii) 



Is Tenderly Inscribed 

TO 

KISSWEETHEART 

BV 

HER HUSBAND. 



CONTENTS 



Jacob Browx, ...... 7 

Oct of the Om) Ykar into tiiu Xkw . . .23 

Dowx THi; Road, ...... 29 

Weeds, ...... .32 

Going to School, , . . . . 34 

A Mexsa et TiioRo, ...... 36 

My Mother and I, .... . 37 

The Sprixg, , . . . . . .44 

True Yersiox, ...... 4G 

Drawixg it Fixe, ...... 4!) 

MCUDER, ....... 57 

Metempsychosis, ...... 60 

The Red Cross, ...... CI 

A Special Plea, ...... 6G 

The Midxigiit Rose, ..... 67 

(v) 



vi CONTENTS. 

Self-Sacrifice, ...... 68 

The Lost Curl, ...... 78 

CULEX i\ Carmixe, ...... 80 

The Court op Berlin, . . . . ' 88 

The Last Leaf, ...... 90 

May IX Mason, ...... 91 

Pythian Lines, ...... 95 

The Crown on Guard, ..... 100 

Our Dead, ....... 101 

Parson Giles, ...... 105 

Omxipotens Veritas, . . . . .121 

From me to You, . . . . . 131 

Gambrinus, ....... 133 

The Grove at St. Elmo, . . . . 148 

The Photograph, ...... 150 

Notes, ...... 153 



JACOB BROWN 



AND OTHER POEMS 



JACOB BEOWN. 

MH|lTn a most unhappy thinking, 

Forward bent, and deeper sinking 

In the cushions of his chair, 
Jacob Brown sits in his study, 
Silent, gloomy-browed, and moody — 

Quite a picture of despair. 

Out beyond him stand the steeples, 
O'er the sected, casted peoples, 

Of a slumb'rous, shadowed town, 
Eeaching upward till their slimness 
Loses outline in the dimness 

Of a night-sky, clouded down, 
(vii) 



JACOB BROWN. 

Still beyond — a patch of river, 
That the vista lends no quiver, 

Lieth like a leaden plate ; 
Whilst a straying, faint air dandles 
With the distant chamber-candles, 

And the street-lamps scintillate. 

From their brawling in the beakers. 
He has seen the pleasure-seekers 

Swaying homeward to their cells ; 
He has heard the startled hours, 
From the sounding, hollow towers. 

Give their death-cry on the bells. 

It is just the time for sinking 
Under great excess of thinking, 

And the secret time for tears ; 
It is just the time for sorrow 
To be yearning for the morrow. 

From the watch-place at her biers. 

Oh, ye million quiet sleepers, 

Who have closed your weary peepers 

On an evening's purple light ! 
Little reck ye of the number 
Of your kind that can not slumber 

Through the horrors of the night 1 



JACOB BROWN. 

Little reck yo of the peoples 
Staring outward on the steeples 

Of your dreamy city's wards ; 
Men who haunt the silent places, 
With the shadow on their faces, 

Like an army's outer guards ! 

Jacob Brown had cast no missile 
At the social law's epistle, 

Nor had ever harmed a dove ; 
He was simply in the illness 
And the sleej)-defying stillness 

Of a trying case of love. 

Many times had gone his distress 
To the proud heart of his mistress, 

In expression, honest, plain ; 
Many times he went appealing 
To her tenderness of feeling. 

And as many times in vain. 

Tho' the bee, in ever}'- hour, 
May forsake a chosen flower, 

Where the sweets are yielded not ; 
Tho' it go and nearly- smother 
In the sweetness of another, 

With the chosen one ibrffot — 



10 JACOB BROWN. 

Jacob Brown's was not the nature 
To possess this vapid feature, 

And to seek another dear j 
He had set his altar burning, 
And his sighs were ever turning 

All its incense out to her. 

With his fingers interlacing, 
There he sat the city facing, 

In a vacant staring o'er — 
Brooding on the dead devices 
He had brought to break her ices 

In the bitter days before. 

Whilst a heavy gloom invaded 
Every crevice there, and shaded 

From the world his deep desjiair, 
With a bitterness of thinking, 
He was slowly, deeper sinking 

In the cushions of his chair, 

When from out the chamber silent 
Of his prisoned heart, servilent. 

Came a most unhappy tone ; 
Something spoken to the inner: 
" I would give my soul to win her,'' 

'Twixt a whisper and a groan. 



JACOB BROWN. H 

It is said the King of Evil 
Is exceeding free and civil 

To the heart that utters this, 
And His Majesty Infernal, 
To possess a soul eternal, 

OflFers anything that 's his. 

Whilst it can not be that ladies 
Give their angel selves to Hades. 

For the wicked devil's sake, 
Yet, the fact we can not smother. 
That our pretty, primal mother 

Had a fancy for the " snake." 

Jacob Brown was somewhat flurried, 
When he found that Satan hurried 

There to close a trade with him ; 
For he could not be mistaken, 
When he felt his shoulder shaken 

By a person rather dim. 

It was scarcely worth his turning, 
When there came a sort of burning 

From the presence at his back ; 
And it needed not the vision 
To perfect a quick decision : 

" It '8 the Gentleman in Black !" 



12 JACOB BROWN. 

" You can have the lady, Jacob — 
I am come the trade to make up 

By a very fair device ; 
I have thought of something better, 
Since you want a wife, to get her 

At a less expensive price. 

" If you give me daily labor. 
For yourself, or for j^'our neighbor — 
■'■ Keep me constantly at work — 

I will run the sooty legions 
Of my underlying regions 
With a deputy or clerk, 

" Just agree to keep me busy, 
Or to make me faint and dizzy 

With a task I can not do. 
And I'll never hope in Hades — 
Though you take a score of ladies, 

For an after-time with you. 

" But be sure you keep me going. 
Like a flood of water flowing 

In and out a fountain's bowl — 
Never pause a single minute — 
Give mo work and keep me in^it, 
Or I take and keep your soul." 



JACOB BROWN. 13 

Brown reflected just a little 
On the questionable title 

Under which he'd hold his wife — 
Just a little — then responded : 
"Sir, consider that we're bonded — 

It's a bargain, made for life." 

It may smack a bit of treason 
To the monarch Human Eeason, 

When we undertake to say 
Of the lesser things that burrow 
For their livings in the furrow : 

" They are truly better clay." 

That the very mole who scratches 
Underneath the paths and patches, 

Having neither point nor plan, 
Born, denied the eyes Elysian, 
In his perfect lack of v'sion, 

Is a greater thing flian man I 

It may smack, I jay, of treason 

To this reigning thing, called Eeason, 

Thus to ruffle up its pride ; 
Thus to bear its courtly ermine, 
To the shoulders of the vermin, 

And to put its rule aside ; 



14 JACOB BROWN. 

But the human mind that reaches 
Over cultivated stretches, 

To the very far-away. 
Often dedicates to sorrow 
All its glorified to-morrow, 

For an aui-eate to-day ; 

And this heritor of treasure, 
For a momentary pleasure, 

Barters ofF its sacred right. 
Sinks a joyous sunny after, 
For a single day of laughter, 

In an unremitting night : 

Men are truly born immortal, 
But they struggle to the portal 

With the blindness of the moles — 
They j)artake of all the features 
Of the under-going creatures, 

That have neither sight nor souls. 

Having attributes of power 
Far beyond the common hour 

Of their probatory time. 
They prefer the baser level 
Of a passage to the devil. 

To the path they ought to climb. 



JACOB brown: 15 

Now an early da}' came, bringing 
That peculiar, pleasant ringing, 

From the sanctuary bells, 
And the Ganymedes of Autumn 
Gathered up her "wines and brought 'era 

From the outer-lying dells. 

And the very streets, in bustle. 
Kept a silken under-rustle 

In theii- red leaves bedded down — 
It was sighing Nature shedding 
All her splendor for the wedding 

Of the happy Jacob Brown. 

Now the priest is in the chancel, 
Keady robed to blot and cancel 

All of Jacob's sadder life ; 
And the twain come at the altai*. 
There to stammer and to falter 

O'er the vows of man and wife. 

" Who does give him here the woman?" 
This was cruel and inhuman 
To the happy, guilty man ; 
For, he thought if any mortal 
Only knew — the fact would startle, 
And the world forbid the ban. 



16 JACOB BROWN. 

He alone could tell the giver, 
But a sudden rush of fever 

Made his tongue exceeding dry, 
And the blood came up to blind him, 
Whilst a hollow voice behind him 

Uttered indistinctly — " I! " 

It was answered rather lowly, 
With an interval, and slowly, 

Like a whisper at his back ; 
Though the bi'ide herself was rather 
Of opinion 't was her father— 

'T was the " Gentleman in Black." 

But it came at last to marriage. 
And the bride went to her cai-riage, 

Down a smiling line of friends; 
Here and there a little blissing. 
In the way of squeezing, kissing, 

As the common wedding ends. 

Brown had quite ignored the devil, 
"Whilst his joyous wedding revel 

Yet was only partly through ; 
It was scarcely in the vesper. 
"When he heard a hollow whisper : 

" Grive me something now to do," 



JACOB BROWN. 17 

They were laughing then, tuul wining, 
In the pleasantry of dining, 

And the bride began to sing; 
BroAvn responded from his chalice : 
" Go and build me now a palace 

Fit to entertain a king." 

Ah ! we seldom note a fleeting 
Of the moments at our eating, 

Though the dial sliadow 's true — 
They were sitting still at dinner, 
When he came again — the sinner — 

'• Give me something else to do." 

Brown was startled, but responded : 
" Are we not together bonded ? 

This is jesting now and fun. 
You must go and do my bidding — 
Build the jialace for m}' wedding." 

Quoth the devil : '• It is done !" 

" What !" said Brown, his pulse diminished, 
"Is itbuilded? Is it finished ? 

Wall and roof, and ceil and floor ?" 
Said the devil : " Jacob, trul}', 
I have done your labor duly. 
And am waitinc: l-.erc for more." 



JACOB BROWN. 

Brown was object then of pity. 
" Go," said he, " and build a city 

Full of palaces and piles — 
Build me columns, build me arches, 
Plant me cedars, lindens, larches, 

On a hundred thousand miles !" 

When the company was fleeing, 
And at twelve o'clock the tea-ing 

Found the party very slim ; 
When the timid bride, uncertain, 
Sought the hiding of a curtain 

In her chamber's shadow dim, 

Brown was sitting there and boasting 
Of her beauty in the toasting 

With the still-remaining few, 
Full of joy, and all a flutter, 
When he heard the devil utter ; 

" Give me something else to do." 

This was torment dreadful, horrid, 
And the atmosphere grew torrid 

Though the Autumn night was late. 
"Am I waking ? Is it real ? 
Can he take a grand ideal 

And so readily create?" 



JACOB BROWX. 19 

At his elbow darkly standing, 
Satan waited his commanding, 

And his shoukler leaning o'er, * 

Whispered : " Wasting time is pity; 
I have built your splendid city — 

Done ni}' duty — give mo more!" 

" Demon ! go and take the motion 
From the pulses of the ocean — 

Go and make the billows still ! 
Go to all the whitened beaches, 
Tell the sands in all their reaches — 

Count the leaves on every hill." 

Thus the spirit kept him worried, 
Always haunted, always hurried, 

Till a twelvemonth struggled by ; 
Finding work to give this sinner. 
Kept him wearing thin and thinner — 

He was ready near to die. 

Worst of all, unlia])py error! 
Brown, too late, had Ibund a teri'or 

In his costly lady's tongue; 
In their little j-ear of marriage 
She had quite another carriage. 

And another song she sung. 



20 JACOB BROWN. 

It wsm now the " old, old story," 
Of a woman in the gloiy 

Of her kingdom over man ; 
She had passed the time of wiling, 
Of her sunlight and her smiling. 

And the reigning-day began. 

With the woman always rating, 
Always scolding him and prating 

Of the gloomy life he led, 
Was it strange the wretched fellow 
Should be growing thin and sallow, 

And be longing to be dead ? 

It was just about the coming 
Of a mellow Autumn gloaming, 

With its dewy, fruity air ; 
Jacob Brown again was sinking. 
With a bitterness of thinking. 

In the cushions of his chair. 

Out before him rose the steeples 
Over all the hapj^y peoples 

Of the underlying town ; 
He was gazing, gloomy, moody, 
When within his silent study 

Stalked the stately Lady Brown. 



JACOB BROWN. 21 

" Always moping, always sighing — 
You arc very slow at dying — 

Will it never, never be? 
I would joy to see you buried — 
Every day that we are married 

Is a misery to me." 

He had scarce attention centered, 
"When the devil slowly entered 

From a gloomy passage through, 
And, with true i^oliteness, waiting 
Fur a pause about her prating — 

" Give my something else to do ! " 

Jacob rather liked the civil, 
Quiet manner of the devil, 

When his wife about hi;ii luiiig. 
So he answered rather slowlv, 
In a whisper, timid, lowly: 

"Please to stop the lady's tongue I" 

But, alas ! the spell was ended, 
And the devil, Bhocked, otfended, 

Out the open window flew ; 
lie was fairly there defeated, 
For he groaned as he retreated : 

" J hat is work lean not do ! " 



22 JACOB BROWN. 

" This is truly most surprising ! " 
Uttered Jacob, there uprising : 

" Pray, your majesty, come back ! 
But the fatal word was spoken, 
And the bond of union broken 

With the " Grentloman in Black." 

Down he settled then, and sighing: 
" I am ready now for dying — 

I have nothing left in life — ■ 
I have lost my friend — the devil, 
And am in this world of evil 

At the mercy of my wife." 

After that, within his study, 
Silent, gloomy-browed, and moody, 

With his hands before his eyes, 
Jacob muttered, as a muser : 
*' I would give my soul to lose her ! " 
— But the devil did not rise. 




OUT OF THE OLD YEAE INTO THE NEW. 



jUT of his jacket and into his blouse, 
Out of the hxncs where linger the cows, 
Up from the stream where shy trout rise 
To the silent fall of the snaring flies; 
Squaring his shoulders, stroking his chin, 
Eying the boot with the breech-leg in, 
The b()3'-c-hild pippeth the egg so well, 
That Mau comes out of the broken shell. 

What shall he do in liis life begun? — 
Go to the bank where the brook-trout run? 
Go to the close and follow the cows 
The homeward way from the slopes they browse? 
Snare in the thicket? Trap in the field? 
Eide on the sweep at the cider yield? 
" Lord of Creation ! " What shall he do 
Out of his Old Year into his New? 

(23) 



24 OUT OF THE OLD TEAR INTO THE NEW. 

Fuller the coveys than ever before — 
Hare in the warren, fish at the shore — 
The seed of the rag-weed falls full fast, 
But trapping days of the boy are past. 
The snows may come, but free is the hare 
To hold his track in the hiding tare — 
The hare-race now with the boy is done ; 
The hound-race hard with the man begun. 

Aye, square your shoulders and stroke your chin, 
The days of labor are crowding in. 
You play no hide-and-seek in the mows ; 
You beat no way with the browsing cows — 
Ho ! for the sickle and scythe and spade ! 
Into the Bun-heat out of the shade — 
Start in the furrow, travel it true 
Out of the Old Year into the !N"ew. 

II. 

Out of her under-coat, red and small, 
And out of her bib and her overall ; 
Hiding the rise of her ankles fair 
"With trailing drape of a fuller wear ; 
Binding her breast to steadier place 
In silken bonds of the corset-lace, 
The girl-child endeth her days of bliss, 
And Woman comes from the chrysalis. 



OUT OF THE OLD YEAR INTO THE NEW. 25 

What shall she do in her life begun ? — 
Gather the buds that blow in the sun ? 
Fashion her garlands to quaint design 
Under the glint of the fielder's tine? 
Loiter the meadows and romp and cry, 
As the mower goes in the golden rye? 
Blossom of girlhood ! "What shall she do 
Out of the Old Year into the New? 

Go to the brook for the yestreen girl, 

With her sundown hat and leaf-brown curl ; 

Go to the glass of the opal lymph 

And widen your eyes, oh, new-born nymph I 

The meadow is sweet with fresh-cut hay. 

The odor the same as ycsterda}-, 

But never you '11 tread, with singing blithe. 

The scented bed of the mower's scythe. 

You loosen your zone and turn your eye 
To gleaning girls in the golden rye ; 
But tighten it now, and turn away, 
It's only a glimpse of yesterday — 
The distaff stands in the window-light. 
There's weft to weave in the warj^ to-night; 
The rye-field wa}' is not for you. 
Out of the Old Year into the New. 



26 OUT OF THE OLD YEAR INTO THE NEW. 

III. 
Woman and man, at the start of life, 
A sunburnt spouse and a peach-cheeked wife, 
Kneeling and swearing the words that bind 
The twain in bonds of the archer blind ; 
Plucking the flowers they nursed so true 
In the gloaming walk where wild ones grew ; 
A man and woman with life begun, 
"Who w^ere two but now, and now but one ; — 

What will they do at their life's outstart ? — 
Meet in the meadow and smile and part? 
Walk in the sundown aisles of the day, 
Study the shades of the twilight gray? 
Eamble the fields where the roses are 
When the foot falls dry and sun shines fair? 
What will the twain in the blood-rite do 
Out of the Old Tear into the New ? 

When flax is ripe for the spinning-wheel 
There 's nothing left for the honey-meal ; 
In other bloom where the dew food lies 
Must loiter the bees with laden thighs — 
Now gather the flax and break it bright, 
The distaff's still in the window-light; 
Gather and garner it under roof, 
For still the warp is waiting the woof 



OUT OF THE OLD TEAR INTO THE NEW. 27 

Be true to your plow and sweep 3'our scythe 
Witli sinew strong and muscle lithe; 
A cradle rocks on the homestead floor, 
One stranger there, and a chance for more ; 
Go deep in the sod and turn full fair, 
For youth is coming the 3"ield to share. 
Mother and father, there 's more to do 
Out of your Old Tear into your New. 

IV. 

Master and dame, at the close of life, 
A toil-bent spouse and a child-worn wife ; 
Sitting at eve in their westward s'.oop. 
Watching the sun to the westward droop ; 
Sitting alone, in their oaken chairs. 
Waiting the twilight, gray as their hairs; 
Olden and worn and ending the run 
Of days like that of the dying sun. 

Ah, still, as the suu that leaves the plain, 
The}' sink at the verge, to rise again ; 
Making the course from gold to gray. 
They turn the arc of a single day, 
And sink in the eve to rise again. 
In world of beauty, or world of bane. 
Mother and father, what world for you 
Out of the Old Day into New? 



28 OUT OF THE OLD YEAR INTO THE NEW. 

Look to the life that is laid before. 

In fields bej'ond on the faint-lined shore ; 

It 's not a measure of labor now, 

A question of bread, and beaded brow ; 

A question of fields, and buds, and bloom, 

Of days of shining, and days of gloom; 

You '11 answer the Maker's gi^aver one, 

Not what shall you do — "What have you done ? 

Ah, woman and man, there lies the test 

For human souls of their final rest — 

What are your hojoes and what are your fears ? 

What have you done in the dry, dead years? 

What do you claim as a just reward 

At the hand of Him — the gracious Lord ? 

Mercy and love be given to you. 

Out of the Old Life into the New. 




DOWN THE EOAD. 



HE overhead blue of the summer is gone, 
The overhead canopy gray'd ; 
Tlio damp and the chill of the winter is on, 

And the dust of the highway laid. 
I sit in the glare of the simmering beech, 

At the hearth of the old abode, 
And I look with a sigh at the comfortless reach 
Of the farm-lands down the road. 

The Avind is astir in the camp of the grain, 

The tents of the grenadier corn ; 
The sentinel stalk at the break of the lane 

Hathawearisome look and lorn ; 
Yet it has n't been long since into the blades 

The sap of the summer-time flowed, 
When I and my ox-team loitered the shades 

Of the oak-trees down the road. 

(29) 



30 DOWN THE ROAD. 

There was n' t a day that I did n' t go by 

The house at the swell of the hill — 
The cattle had broken the close of the rye, 

Or something was wanted at mill ; 
And Kittj^ — she stood in the porch at her wheel, 

And the gold to her shoulder flowed ; 
And what did I care for the " turn of the meal," 

Or the rye-field down the road? 

In the seeding-time, when I followed the plow 

And furrowed the mellow ground, 
There was n't that labor-like sweat of the brow 

That honester husbandry crowned ; 
For the fairy was there at her wheel and sjjun 

As I plowed or planted or sowed, 
And my labor was never right faithfully done 

In the grain-fields down the road. 

And then in the heat of the harvesting-daj', 

When the sickle and scythe went through, 
It was only the veriest time for play 

That ever a harvester knew ; 
For there was the maid at the humming wheel yet 

Just fronting the swath that I mowed, 
And the scythe ran slow, for my eyes w^ere set 

On the old porch down the road. 



DOWN THE ROAD. 31 

Then the autumn at last came into the year, 
And life took a mellowei' mood : 

We gathered the grain, and the quail with a whin- 
Went out of the field to the wood. 

And I tried to be steady and brisk ; but ^till 
It was hard to bo plying the goad 

When my indolent oxen balked at the hill 
B}- the farm-house down the road. 

Now Kitty has eyes of the tenderest blue, 

And hair of the glossiest gold, 
But never a word of my loving so true 

To Kitt}- have ever I told. 
And the winter is here and the winter may go 

And still I can cany the load — 
The green of the spring cometh after the snow 

In the grain -fields down the road. 




WEEDS. 

,ENT at the gate in her weeds, 
A trifle reduced and whiter — 
Some say of her heart : " It bleeds ; " 
Some say of her heart : " It 's lighter." 

A woman of mind and soul, 

And strong to the utmost straining — 
How should I know if her dole 

Be dole, or only a feigning ? 

Once I was weak to believe, 
And said : " G-od pity us madam ! 

You be a blossom of Eve, 
And I be a scion of Adam." 

The tide in her cheek ran red — 
Hed as the East in the morning. 
'' Sir, I be a wife," she said, 

In passion, and pride, and scorning. 

(32) 



WEEDS. 



33 



Forbidden, the ripe, fair fruit- 
Forbidden, but near to reaching. 

I stood in the garden mute, 

Abashed and stung wilh the teaching. 

A queen in her weeds is she. 
By the gate, in shadow leaning. 

Now tell mo if mask it be. 
Or grief in the real meaning? 

I pass on the other side, 

1 make an obesiance to her — 

I wonder if he who died 

Was wiser than I, and — knew her. 




GOING TO SCHOOL. 

HIS knowledge we find in tlie flow of tlie street, 
From faces we see and from figures we meet, 
That men in tlieir callow, their ri2)ening and rime 
Are under the rod of the pedagogue Time ; 
And this we deduce, by a logical rule : 
However we go, we are going to school. 

Now, here is a brown little urchin of ten, 
Half hidden from sight in the sea of the men ; 
A steady-eyed, stout little lad in his looks, 
Tied up like his burdensome bundle of books, 
So mitted and buttoned that any poor fool 
May see, at a glance, he is going to school. 

Then here is a chap with a worrying stock 
Of wonderful wrangles from Bacon and Locke, 
Who, having been polished and plated and pearled, 
Somewhere at a college, comes out in the world, 
And, mixing with men in the slime of its pool, 
Is forced to admit he is going to school. 

(34) 



GOING TO SCHOOL. 35 

And here is a priest, with tlie saintliest face — 
A pauper in pocket, a Croesus in grace ; 
He enters the pulpit, and opens the book, 
As wise as an owl and as grave as a rook ; 
But spite of the penitents bent at his stool, 
And though he may teach, he is going to school 

And there is a bridegroom with beautiful bride — 

The fact of her beauty is never denied ; 

He 's proud of his purpose and promise in life, — 

Is proud of his manhood, and proud of his wife : 

How long will he be under petticoat rule 

Till he saj's to himself, " I am going to school !" 

And here is a chance to look into the glass 
Of the wearisome eye of a woman you pass ; 
Her purpose is gone and her jn'omisc is dead, 
Hor life is a skein of the slenderest thread, 
And sorrow is winding it fast on a spool — 
Her husband 's a sot, and she 's going to school. 

But here is a person — no longer a slave 

To the pedagogue Time — at the brink of the grave. 

His course in the school of the world he has run, 

His summer is over, his session is done ; 

And now, as ho dies in the driftings at Yule, 

His children may say, " Ho is going to school !"' 



"A MENSA ET THORO." 

4OTH of us guilty and both of us sad — 
^"^^ And this is the end of passion ! 
And people are silly — jDeople are mad, 

Who follow the lights of Fashion ; 
For she was a belle, and I was a beau. 

And both of us giddy-headed — 
A priest and a rite — a glitter and show, 

And this is the way we wedded. 

There were wants we never had known before, 

And matters we could not smother; 
And poverty came in an open door, 

And love went out at another : 
For she had been humored — I had been spoiled, 

And neither was sturdy-hearted — 
Both in the ditches and both of us soiled. 

And this is the way we parted. 

"(36) 



MY MOTHER AND I. 

[IE wore finishing tea — my niothor and I— 
'f^ Exactly at lialf after eight ; 
The noise in the kettle went down to a sigli, 

The muffin grew cold on the plate ; 
I looked in the cup as I toyed with a spoon, 

Attempting to balance it clear, 
And said to mj-sclf : " It 's the last afternoon 

Of the very last day of the year ; 
I '11 see if my fortune — for better, for worse — 

By drops of the tea will be told," 
And then, like a boy, I began to rehearse 

What I tried when I was n't so old, 

"Why, John," said mj" mother, a manifest smile 

Just lighting her lips and her eyes, 
"You seem to be dropping a very long while, 
The handle is slow to arise." 
My arm gave a lurch and it flooded the bowl, 

And down to the bottom it fell ; 
I'm forty! but farther than that from the goal, 
If tea-drippings honestl}* tell. 

(37) 



38 MY MOTHER AND I. 

" No use for such folly at my time of life." 

Then I quietly said in repl}'' : 
" It is n't for me to be taking a wife 

As long as it 's — mother and I.'' 

Then something got under my lid like a mote; 

I rose at recalling my sire, 
And parting the points of a pigeon-tailed coat, 

Extended my palms to the fire. 
Then one after one of the last forty years, 

I soberly mustered them up ; 
A little of laughter, a little of tears. 

And the fortunes I tried in the cup. 
My mother, still dreamily keei:)ing her seat, 

Was thinking, no doubt of the one 
"Who left her, a stalk of the yellowing wheal, 

To ripen alone in the sun. 

The jDicture is clearly domestic, I know, 

And homely and common withal, 
A celibate, just in his midsummer glow, 

A widow, somewhat in her fall ; 
She is sixty and past, but having the air 

Of one who had reigned in her day — 
A trifle subdued, and the dusk of her hair 

Just broken with glintings of gray. 



Mr MOTHER AND I. 39 

My mother's my sweetheart, my glory, my queen, 

My only true womun in life ; 
I wonder sometimes what an ass I have been 

To ever have dreamed of a wife. 

I said it waa half after eight, and the eve 

Of the very last day of the year ; 
The ghosts of my life at the time, I believe, 

I had soberly called to appear. 
A fig for the past ! Let the closets of time 

Forever their skeletons hide ; 
There 's nothing to gain from the mold and the grime, 

And the ghosts of the things that have died. 
So, breaking the chain of my mother's duress 

In the prison of days that were dead, 
I gave her the query : " Pray, what is your guess 

Concerning the twelvemonth ahead ?" 

It staggered her some, but she I'allied at last, 
And the sweet of her smiling arose ; 
" Well, John, if j^ou 're Avanting your horoscope cast, 
I 'm a proi:>er old witch, I suppose " — 
That's she, on the laughing and bantering side. 
When she passes from ■v\ 'nter to sj^ring. 
" Do n't trouble yourself abc t me," I replied, 
" For my destiny's not ii 'Our ring ; 



40 MV MOTHER AND I. 

" I come to the brink of your beaker of age 

For a drop of its wine's overcharge, 
'A cross on your pahn' for an honest presage 
Of the world and the people at large." 

" In any event, you would have me a witch 

Whilst yet in the flush of my prime. 
Ah, well, we are both of ns knotting a stich, 

To-night, in the stocking of time. 
And John, let me say of the stitches just here, 

Their making's perfection of art ; 
Unless there's a flaw in the yarn of the year 

We never can tell them apart. 
I look on the stitch we are finishing now, 

By others as evenly laid. 
And feel it's a trifle to estimate how 

The stitch of to morrow '11 be made. 

" That's witchery, fair as the best you have known, 

And as true as the best you will see; 
From nature to-da}^ it is readily shown 

What nature to-morroAV will be." 
Then, leaving the table, she came to a seat 

In the cushioned old rocker of state. 
And crossing her arms and extending her feet, 

Looked musingly into the grate. 



MV MOTHER AND T. 41 

Slic burnished a thought I refused to exproBS, 
When I banished the past from my brain, 

Tho' cleverly said, I am free to confess 
It was not what I hojied to obtain. 

Continuing then : " It may do very well 

To be earnest]}' looking ahead 
For the something to buy, or something to sell, 

In the matter of making our bread. 
Wo 're not like tho sparrows tbat gather the crumbs 

Sown over the snow in the street; 
We put in our fingers to pull out the plums 

From the pie of the Earth — if wo eat. 
Wc may not foretell Avhat the season will bring 

B}' a rule of the previous yield ; 
A chill ma}" go down to the germ in the spring, 

Or summer may ashen the field. 

•' I do not refer to the physical world, 

With its bees, and its ants, and its moles; 
But the surface of time that 's blackened and pearled 

By a tireless passage of souls. 
The age, to my mind, is no better, no worse, 

Than it was in the century gone; 
Though we act in this year, 'tis to simply rehearse 

For the play of a year coming on. 



42 MF MOTHER AND I. 

" The Father of All is abroad everywhei-e, 
But the bad ' little master ' is free ; 
There's evil and good in proportionate share, 
And long as we live it will be. 

"Now, mark it, my son, there are sections of Earth 

In excellence greatly advanced ; 
But equally, places much lessened in worth 

With ignorance sadly enhanced. 
We fluctuate, some in the scale, it is true — 

How could we be mortal without it ? — 
But taking the whole of our pilgrimage through, 

There 's always a sameness about it. 
What guess could I make on the twelvemonth ahead 

Excejjt on the basis of othei's? 
Men know that their bodies in time will be dead, 

Because they have buried their brothers." 

Then mother looked earnestly back in the blaze, 

And studied the glow of the coals ; 
]Sro doubt they gave pictures of beautiful days 

To her, but to me they were ghouls. 
So I turned and abraded a match on the wall, 

And I lighted a Cuba cigar, 
And I said to myself: " There 's a doubt after all 

As to what sort of creatures we are. 



MV MOTHER AND I. 



43 



"Hero 's mother, so good tliat the angels above 
Might safely kneel down at her feet ; 
And I, of her blood, and her life, and her love, 
Not more than the dust of the street." 




THE SPEING. 

|UT of the hill there issued a spring, 
And into a moss'd retreat ; 
Lucent and cool, with eddy and swing, 
It came at our feet. 

Violet beds a trifle a-stir, 

A nd stray leaves driven about ; 

A low, sweet noise to me and to her 
As the stream ran out. 

Two great broad elms beclouded the sky 
And meted the ether through ; 

What care to us if a midnight dye 
Flowed over the blue ? 

Tremulous arms that circled me there, 

And pluvial eyes afloat ; 
And wanton tides of vagabond hair — 

They flooded my throat! 

(44) 



THE SPRING. 



45 



Then down the way the waters went, 

Together went 1 and she ; 
And on, and on, we followed the bent 

Till into the sea. 

The wide, high sea ! Oh, frail are the helms, 

And heavy the billows' fling! 
Oh, to go back to the sjoreading elms 

Where issued the spring ! 




TEUE YEESION. 

LITTLE vine about an oak 
Its lissom thread has run. 
To find, beyond the shadow-cloak, 
A fruitage in the sun. 

A scapeling from the prison-ground — 
Through heat and shower free — 

Now tenderly it twines around 
The roughness of the tree; 

And soon upon the upper air 

Its pliant jesses swing, 
Till, in the shine, it comes to bear, 

The children of the Spring. 

Proud mother to the multibloom, 

The canopy and cloak — 
That floods with such a rare perfume 

The precincts of the oak. 

(46) 



TRUE VERSION. 47 



On steely wings the yellow bees 
Ply in and out the place ; 

The oriole there shakes the lees 
Of blossoms to her face. 



Now mellow Autumn days arc here, 
The ripening days and brown ; 

The leaves upon the trees are sere, 
The limbs are leaning doAvn — 

In clusters hang the winy globes 

Above the nether way, 
The vino is in its purple robes, 

The tree is in its gray. 

Then Winters pass, and Spring on Spring, 
"With blossoms blown and shed. 

The vino has grown a massy thing — 
The sturdy oak is dead — 

And silent, on the greening earth, 

A weighted monarch lies. 
The proudest of her forest birth. 

The noblest one that dies. 



48 



TRUE VERSION. 



No longer in the golden shine 

Her glowing life shall be, 
Until the widowed arms shall twine 

Another fated tree. 

And this, in season, too, shall die. 
And all that she encloaks; 

And still shall come the widow's cry, 
"Bring on your sturdy oaks ! " 




" — X^ 



DEAWING IT FINE. 

3 jp^ 11 sliining cloud of meshes, 
f^ Where a marge of Summer rushes 
To a noisy water dipt, 
Dwelt a prim, maternal spider, 
"With her grim, brown spouse beside her, 
Like two mummies in a crypt. 

And except, perhaps, the shimmer 
Of a sunset's silver tremor. 

There was not the slightest breath — 
Not the faintest undulation. 
In the pendant, hooded station, 

"Where they simulated death. 

Every tentacle enfolded, 

Much as if the parts were molded, 

Or were carven so from stone ; 
There they sat, Avithout emotion, 
Staring down a woven ocean, 

From the funnel of their cone. 

(49) 



50 DRA WING n FINE 

— When the dry, drawn spider's forces 
Puts its legion pulsate courses 

Thus suecessfully to rout, 
"Well, indeed, may Science marvel 
How it is this crimson travel 

Of the venous-tide goes out. 

We have no such tragic actors 
As these adept tissue-factors — ■ 

Since they never rant or rave — 
And there 's not a tiling in nature 
Wearing such a perfect feature 

Of the unrelenting grave. 

True, they act this tableau merely, 
But they mimic death so nearly — 

Being rigid there and still — 
That the Llinded insect rushes 
Down the silence of their meshes 

To escape some lesser ill. 

So these consorts sat in quiet, 
Watching ever for the diet 

To their finished talent due; 
Waiting patiently and stilly 
For the winged things and silly 

That were intermitting through. 



DRA WING IT FINE. 51 

By-and-by, upon hex* vision 
Came a light of clear decision, 

And the sober matron spoke 
(She had something like that human, 
Active impulse of a woman, 

In her tongue — the common joke) : 

" Having trained our girl and taught her, 
As a spider should her daughter, 

All the proper things in life, 
It is time she had our blessing — 
Though the thought is sore distressing — 

As some decent person's wife. 

"I am sui'e the maid is able, 
Now, to run her line of cable. 

Unassisted, front the spool ; 
And as weaver, and as spinner. 
That there 's more than common in her, 

I believe, upon my soul 1 

" Onl}" yesterday, I saw her. 
For our neighbor, Mistress Drawer, 

Darning ])laccs in her net; 
Busy there in giving issue 
To the fine-t solar tissue 

I have ever noticed yet. 



52 DRA WING IT FINE. 

"She is skilled in all the graces 
Of the most exquisite laces — 

Quite invisible to me — 
And I think such work would kill me, 
With \ay eyes bo veiy film}^ 
I could never, never see. 

" There 's a wanton mass of bushes 
Just above our line of rushes, 

Where to spread the maiden's net; 
So, good man, though sad to miss her. 
Let us bless the child and kiss her. 

Whilst our lives are steady yet." 

And the grim old spider listened. 
Till upon his optics glistened 

Something not unlike a tear; 
And with quite a man's agreeing 
To a woman's way of seeing. 

Answered : "As j^ou think, my dear." 

Then the mother called her daughter 
From a-sporting on the water. 

In a little bay below ; 
And the ladylike young spider 
Came and settled down beside her, 

To the sorrow of her beau ; 



DRA WING IT FINE. 53 

For Bho ceased at once her skating, 
Left the gallant there awaiting, 

Made a courtesy and flew — 
Ju8t as every little woman, 
When she hears her mother summon, 

Ought nndoul)tedly to do. 

It was charming in the tunnel. 
Of their silver-sided funnel. 

Thus the family to see ; 
Sitting close to one another 
Were the fixther and the mother 

And the daughter — happy three I 

There their plans were all unfolded, 
And the maiden's future molded 

In the fancy of the dame ; 
In the matted brier trellis 
She should have her silver palace 

And be given up to Fame. 

But alas ! like every other 

Living thing — that has a mother — 

How these fancies Avent astray! 
All the goodly things we nurture 
For the overburdened future 

Pass too fleetiugly away. 



54 DRA WING IT FINE. 

So it was, this callow weaver, 
When her mamma let her leave her, 

Went a little bit too fast ; 
Though she made a fiair beginning 
With her cunning kind o' spinning, 

It was not a kind to last. 

She was full of life, and agile. 

But her shining threads were fragile 

And defective in their length ; 
For she made her woofing wider 
Than her warping justified her. 

And the fabric wanted strength. 

We have seen a thousand ladies 
On a rapid way to Hades 

By this very common force. 
And exactly like the spinner 
They persist in drawing finer, 

When they ought to draw it coarse. 

'T is peculiar to the human — 
Where the debutant 's a woman — 

To exceed the parent mai^ge ; 
She rejects the frugal spirit 
She should properly inherit, 

And essays to "go it large." 



DRA WING IT FINE. 55 

And the rule is just as certain, 
When it 's time to lift the curtain 

On the drama of her days, 
She has found her li^lit ambition 
At the margin of perdition, 

Through tlic saddest sort o' ways. 

Now, the highest aim that lillod her — 
And the very thin<y that killed her — 

Was her foolish love for show; 
For our pulsing spider lady 
Could n't keep her palace shady 

In the brier-patch below. 

But she made her nicest hitches 
On some pendulating switches, 

That her glory might be seen ; 
And she loitered with her lover 
All its silver terrace over, 

With the leisure of a queen. 

And, as might have been expected, 
She was readily detected 

By a bandit living near, 
For the wily robber sparrow, 
Coming downward like an arrow, 

Made a quiet meal of her. 



56 DRAWING IT FINE. 

And the prim maternal spider, 

With her grim, brown spouse beside her, 

Sits a silent mummy yet; 
And the brealiing of each morrow 
Brings her such a meed of sorrow, 

As she never can forget. 

She is full of sad upheavals. 
From the crater of her evils, 

For the wroug she did her child. 
When she taught her only graces 
In the art of making laces. 

By a vanity beguiled. 

So the two unhappy tenants 
Of the cone are doing penance, 

And their bosoms both are wrung ; 
He has chronic gout to bother, 
And this wicked, wicked mother 

Has paralysis of tongue. 



MUEDRR. 

I IS wine of life, drawn past its lees, 
Had stained the grasses red, 
Where, under laden date-palm trees, 
A man laid newly dead. 

The motley of a summer day— 

The shadow set in light — 
With sharp-defined existence lay 

Imprinted on the sight. 

A hush was in the fruity bloom. 

Where late attrition made 
An atmosphere of spice-perfume 

The distances pervade. 

The Naiad of a lucent brook 

That loitered in the place. 

Went outwai'd with a frighted look 

Upon a whited face. 
(57) 



58 MURDER. 

An utter, utter stillness there ; 

A silence and a pain ; 
A terror in the marching air, 

That halted by the slain. 

The world was young and virgin then 
To common blight and ill, 

And ISTature, in tlie outraged glen. 
Stood, horrified and still. 

And this was fruit from Eden-seeds 
In serpent-trailings lain ! 

The meek and mild-way'd Abel bleeds 
"Whilst, pulseful, wanders Cain. 

The dove and robin only keep 

A record of that day. 
The world did pause awhile and weep 

Above the mortal clay : 

But soon the world went on, went by 
The rotting gold-haired thing — 

The very wind came gleeful nigh — 
The brook learned soon to sing. 



MURDER. 59 

With song the dove was sweetly blest, 

And down the long-ago, 
The robin held upon its breast 

The driftings of the snowj 

But under Abel's date-palm trees 

The dove forgot its tone, 
And since, o'er other lands and seas. 

It makes its plaintive moan ; 

And there, when pulsing sadly, stood 

The I'obin by the slain, 
His plumage caught from Abel's blood 

Its never-fading stain. 

Thus Deity hath marked the crime 

For cycles passing round — ■ 
The blood that flowed in Adam's time 

Is crying from the ground — 

For this is wliy the dove declares 

Its tearful, sad unrest ; 
And this is whj- the robin wears 

The red upon its breast. 



METEMPSYCHOSIS. 

aji I ET me go back to the maze 

''^^ Where light to my life returns ; 

Let me lift out of their urns 
Ashes of splendorful days. 

Oh, days of the far-gone years ; 

Oh, days of mist-hidden time — 
Days of the rust and the rime. 

Be risen above your biers ! 

Give me the scepter again ; 

Give me the ermine and crown ; 

Press the front outward and down, 
Make my lost royalty plain. 

1 fall in a life so mean — 

I sink in the slough of this ; 
Oh, give me the days of bliss, 

Make me again a queen ! 

(60) 



THE EED CEOSS. 

^lE Knights, beyond the river there, 
And down the distance gray, 
In com-tl}^ robes, with saber bare — 

A soldier takes his way — 
The scion of a i-oyal house, 

A prince of" knio-htly signs, 
Has gone among the sentinels 
That tread the Persian lines. 

A mission (Voni the broken swords, 

And bended heads of them 
That hold the ruined walls and wards, 

Of wrecked Jerusalem. 
Now niai'k tlu" stately front he bears — 

His martial sway and grace — 
A heart that feels — a soul that dares — 

Is speaking in his face. 
(61) 



62 THE RED CROSS. 

Ah, proud Zerubbabel, take heed — 

The Persian guards advance, 
The countersign must serve thy need. 

And not thy princely glance — 
G-rasp well thy sword and be prepared 

To meet the 'larum cry, 
" An enemy ! What ho ! The guard ! 

An enemy — a spy ! " 

Now clash like flints their sabers' steel 

In jealous ward and pass. 
Our Prince has made the Persians feel 

Through corselet and cuirass ; 
But not his single arm can hold 

The numbers there at bay — 
With half his prowess yet untold 

The guards have gained the day. 

And from the royal shoulders there 

They strip the em'rald down, 
They mock the knightly prince and heir 

Unto the Jewish crown. 
They deck him in the meaner gown 

That holds the prison stains. 
And weigh his lordly person down 

With shackles and with chains. 



THE RED CROSS. 63 

And there, before their sovereign lord, 

Within his prosoncc hall, 
Zerubbabel attends the guard, 

The proudest of them all. 
With peerless brow and steady eye — 

His only visage known — 
He fronts the monareh seated high, 

Darius on his throne. 

Well ma}^ the Knights that stand around. 

Their ])lnmcd helmets raise. 
Ecncath the robe, the court has found 

Another royal gaze ; 
And though, in chains, Zerubbabel 

The meaner soldiers bring — 
The truly great, may pause to tell — 

Now ichich is here the King. 

Then from his place Darius speaks. 

And in the kinder way, 
Of one whose mental vision seeks 

A long-departed day. 
He calls to mind the early friend, 

That knew his tender youth. 
The one whose higher aim and end 

Was in the holy truth. 



64 THE RED CROSS. 

But ermined garb and scepter strong 

Had made the King forget, 
Tliat he who scorned to do a wrong 

Held steady purpose j^et ; 
And to Zerubbabel he said, 

" We knew thee once of ohl, 
A goodly Prince — a royal head, 

A knightly man and bold, 

" A member of that mystic clan, 

A Mason firm and true, 
The highest type of noble man, 

A kingdom ever knew; 
Now give us here the secret things 

Thy silent brothers hold. 
And thou shalt be the friend of kings 

In purple and in gold." 

Then sudden flush'd the Prince's face, 

And proudly 'rose his head, 
As if to scorn the shameful grace 

In what Darius said ; 
" My sovereign master, know that I 

Am subject to thy will, 
Jhen banish me, or bid me die — 

I hold w.y honor still." 



THE RED CROSS. 65 

Then ran the blood in kingly veins 

With r:ij)i<l ])iiise ami play — 
" What ho ! the guard ! strike otf his chains ! 

Strike off /lis chains. I say, 
Now give him back the em'rald thing 

And swonl of honor bright, 
And make it known the Prince and King 

Shall banquet here to-night. 

" Zerubbabel, thou tcachest now 

The lesson of our youth, 
The grandest crown for kingly brow 

Is courage, honor, truth ! 
Now make thy secret wishes known 

The dearest and the best, 
And by our sovereign word and throne 

Is granted thy request." 

" Oh, King, ni}' trodden people there 

In ruined arches kneel, 
And pray thee in thy might to spare 

From adversary's steel ; 
And, Sire, I come from ruined halls, 

To crave a boon for them — 
That thou wilt build the domes and walls, 

Of old Jerusalem." 



A SPECIAL PLEA. 

^inj|I^'UE and I together sat 
ilf Beside a running brook ; 
The little maid put on my hat, 
And I the forfeit took. 

" Desist," she cried : " It is not right, 
I 'm neither wife nor sister ; " 
But in her eye there shone such light, 
That twenty times I kiss'd her. 

(66) 




THE MIDNIGHT EOSE. 



^Il HERE i8 a flower that loves to shun 
^:'^The kisses of the morning sun ; 
There is n rose that never knew 
The sparkle of the morning dew. 

But Avheu the mellow evening dies 
Upon the glinting summer skies, 
It gently breaks the sepal close 
And opens out — a perfect rose. 

Oh, ye who wander down the days. 
In crocus, fern, and fennel ways. 
There has not broken on your sight 
The rose that glorifies the night ! 

Go call the buttercup that yields 
Its gold florescence to the fields — 
Go gather all your noons disclose, 
But leave to me my midnight rose I 

(G7) 



SELP-SACEIFICB. 

mi T is in that edge of Winter 

f When the frost its silver splinter 

Throws along the window-glass; 
When upon the crusty border, 
In a cruel, sad disorder, 

Hang the brown lines of the grass^ 

It is in that time for sighing, 
Wlien the dry things underlying. 

Give their crisping to the feet ; 
When the wrecks of vernal races, 
With their painted, brazen faces, 

Go abandoned in the street — 

It is in that sober weather 

When the fowls are more in feather, 

And the fui"S are thicker grown. 
That the world shrinks under cover 
From the dun clouds reaching over, 

And the cares of life are known. 



SEL F-SA ORIFICE. Q Q 

Onlj' siK'h an keep in storage 
Goodly bins, from Summer forage, 

May the barren daj'^s defy ; 
For the dreamy thing that lingers 
With the blossom in its fingers, 

When tlie Winter comes, may die. 

But in many living creatures 
There's an impulse of their natures. 

Over care of life and pelf, 
And to save some thriftless neighbor, 
Man will yield his fruits of labor, 

Though it sacrifice himself. 

Here 's a case that is not common 
Even in the higher human, 

Though from underneath his house — 
'Tis a simple illustration, 
From the lower tribe and nation, 

Of an antiquated mouse. 

It was in that edge of Winter, 
When the frost began to splinter 

Into pictures on the glass — 
When the red along the heather 
Told a rapid change of weather. 

That the matter came to pass. 



70 SELF-SACRIFICE. 

And 't was in a tunneled entry 
From a kitchen to a pantry, 

At the noontide of the day — 
Though the place was gloomy rather- 
That the antiquated father 

Had a solemn thing to say. 

So they came from every quarter, 
Male and female, son and daughter, 

There to hearken to the sage ; 
And with quiet, sober faces. 
There assumed sach proper places 

As accorded rank and age. 

It was not a comnaon meeting, 
Where they scramble over seating, 

Making every kind of noise ; 
For the maids were prim and steady- 
Each and every one a lady — 

And a decent set of boys. 

There was no outrageous stamping, 
Like a stud of horses tramping 

On a shaky bridge of rails ; 
But they sat respectful, stilly, 
Doing nothing rude or silly. 

With their faces, feet, or tails. 



SEL F-S. I CR. IF ICE. 7 1 

When tlic latest mouse had entered, 
With attention duly center 'd, 

And all noises under ban, 
From his chill and dusky corner, 
Like an aged and shaken mourner, 

Thus the patriarch began : 

"I have called you here together. 
At the dawn of Winter weather, 

For a purpose fixed and strong ; 
And you see I 'm frail — I tremble. 
For I can not now dissemble. 

That my days may not be long. 

"Through the Summer, daily — nightly — 
I have sought to teach j-ou rightly 

How to manage for your food ; 
And I 'd like to guide you longer, 
For there 's naught in life that 's stronger 
Than this holy tie of blood. 

" But, my children, I am going 
Where the bread of lil'e is growing, 

In the Good Place up ahove ; 
And I leave you now in sorrow, 
To the mercies of to-morrow, 
With a legacy of love. 



72 SELF-SACRIFICE. 

"You will find it somewhat harder 
To be keeping up your larder, 

As the bleaker days go by. 
And I will not be your burden — 
And I pray this as a guerdon — 

Just to turn away and die. 

" So, my darlings, come and kiss me — 
You will sometimes sigh and miss me, 

But I know 'tis for the best. 
Let your hearts be light and cheery, 
For I 'm going where the weary 

And the laden are at rest." 

Ere the sage had finished speaking, 
There began a bitter squeaking 

All around about the place ; 
And a troop of teai-ful misses 
Came and covered o'er with kisses 

All the beard upon his face. 

Then he gave such admonition 
As befitted their condition. 

And he urged them not to cry ; 
And he said : " All life is sorrow," 
And that maybe they to-morrow 

Would be going off to die. 



SELF-SACRIFICE. 73 

And his stiird}' sons protested 
That he never should be wrested 

From tlic kindness of their care; 
That they 'd undero-o the squeezes 
Of all crevices, for cheeses, 

And for other dainty fare. 

He should nibble at his leisure 
From their fullest store and treasure, 

And should never come to want ; 
That they 'd fill the tunneled entry 
From the kitchen to the pantry, 

And that nothing should be scant. 

But in vain was all pei'suasion — 
He had taken that occasion 

Just to speak a sad good-by ; 
He would hear no further pressing, 
So he gave them all his blessing. 

And he totter.d out to die. 

Now, most truly, this was noble, 
Though 't was sore and bitter trouble 

Thus to see the parent go ; 
For the winds AvithoMt grew bolder, 
And they whistled shriller, colder, 

Of the coming ice and snow. 



74 SELF-SACRJFICE. 

Through the dark, unfriendly weather, 
Went they foraging together. 

All the little orphan'd mice ; 
And their ways were illy chosen, 
For their feet and tails were frozen 

On the bleak plateau of ice. . 

Sad indeed their lives, and trying, 
Full of sore distress and sighing 

For a father's guidance bold, 
And they wept such tears as only 
Little orphans, wretched, lonely, 

Weep for parents in the mold. 

By the wicked, cunning kitten 

Some where caught and badly bitten ; 

Others met their fate in traps ; 
Some were lying in the gutter, 
Dead of poisoned bread and butter, 

And from other sad mishaps. 

When at last thei-e came a murmur 
From the trees, denoting Summer, 

They were very few indeed ; 
All were caught, or killed, or frozen — 
All, except, perhaps, a dozen. 

Now in dire distress and need. 



SELF-SACRIFICE. 75 

True, they held thoir tunneled entry 
To the old haunts in the pantry, 

Where the shelvinj;^ ran below; 
But above the cornice, higher. 
Though 't was greatly their desire, 

They had never dared to go. 

Now, at last, their need was sorer, 
So they sent a bold exploi-er 

To the very topmost shelf; 
One who swore to find the upper 
With its narrow chance for supper. 

Though he sacrificed himself 

Up he clambers, now, and squeezes 
Right between some bigger cheeses 

Than he 'd ever seen before, 
And he signaled Avith a squeak, a 
Something XQvy like Em'cka ; 

To the orphans on the floor ; 

And they I'aised their tails and started, 
Vcr}" brisk and happy-hearted, 

Up the angle of the wall ; 
Some were breathing like a furnace. 
And they overcame the cornice 

lu a fever, one and all. 



76 SELF-SACRIFICE. 

Though the mice were not so many, 
Yet the biggest cheese of any 

"Was their object of attack ; 
And a mouse who ran around it, 
Just to circumscribe and bound it, 

Found it open at the back. 

It was hard and heavy-crusted, 
Yery green outside and musted, 

And they thought it not a sin, 
When their strongest, and their oldest, 
And their biggest and their boldest 

Brother orphan ventured in. 

So they all began to follow. 
And the}^ gathered in the hollow 

Of the new-discovered house, 
And within — oh, melancholy ! 
Yery sleek, and fat, and jolly, 

Sat that gray, paternal mouse. 

This is where he came, in sorrow, 
When he left them to the morrow 

With his legacy of love ! 
This the heaven he was seeking. 
When he left his children, squeaking 

Of the " Good Place up above! " 



SELF-SA ORIFICE. 

He who would not be a burden — 
He who prayed it is a guerdon 

Just to totter out and freeze — 
He had tottered out the entry, 
To the " Good Place " in the pantry, 

And bad " frozen to " a cheese. 





THE LOST CURL.* 

IAS it the ghost of a beautiful girl 
Flitting away from the sun, 
That out of its binding of amber and pearl, 
Lost, in the morning, a light-brown curl, 
Just as the night was done? 

Lured by the glow of the Christ-night's moon. 

Came she out of her crypt, 
To patter the streets in her crystal shoon. 
Where the spars of frost, like the dews of June, 

Lay over the way she tript? 

Was it the ghost of a girl that died, 

Eipe for the sphere of wife, 
Just as the bloom of the oranges sighed 
To hide in tlie hair of the brown-curled bride, 

Whiten and freshen her life? 



* Lost, in tliis city, on Ann or Main street, Christmas morn- 
ing, a lon;^, lii^ht-brown curl. The finder will plense leave it at 
this office. — Kentucky Ytoman. 

(78) 



THE LOST CURL. 



79 



Wliocvcr shall find it, tluit li<;Iit-bro\vn curl. 

At break (jf the Clirist-duy lost, 
Willi moon in its amber and frost in its pearl, 
Must 1^0 to the grave of a beautitul girl, 

And ask for a brown-haired ghost. 




CULEX m CAEMINE. 

i|Hj]HEN' some migratory clouds, 
Broke upon the leafy shrouds, 
Where the insects lay in crowds, 

And a melancholy rain, 

On the sounding window-pane, 

Beats its funeral refrain, 

Tnrough a crevice in the sash. 
Where the splatter and the dash. 
Made his purpose very rash, 

A mosquito, lean and thin, 
From the drowning and the din. 
Undertook to flutter in ; 

And a crazy shutter's swing, 
Made the hanging blossoms fling, 
Such a flood upon his wing, 

(80) 



CULEX IN CARMINE. 81 

That ho rather fell than flew, 
And was fairly driven through, 
By the gusty wind that blew — 

Thus succeeding in his flight. 
From the unrelenting night, 
In a wet and wretched plight. 

'T was tlie chamber of a maid, 
Who, her perfectness displayed — 
In a measure — disarrayed ; 

For a taper in the gloom. 
Of the curtained, quiet room. 
Showed a woman in her bloom — 

And the mellow light was shed, 
On her bosom and her head, 
In the splendor of her bed. 

In a golden current there, 

Ean her undulating hair, 

From the polished shoulder bare. 

As the whitest foam that flees, 
Up the beaches from the seas, 
La}'" the lace of her chemise ; 



82 CULEX IN CARMINE. 

And the billows of her breast, 
In the pillows there imprest, 
Kept an ocean-like unrest. 

Ah, 'twas well indeed for her, 
That the only viewer near. 
Was the poor mosquito here ; 

And 't was better still for him. 
That his vision should be dim, 
In the halo of the glim. 

For the splendid creature there, 
With the gilding on her hair, 
La}^ magnificently fair. 

And the smallest insect's eyes, 

Seeing such a paradise, 

Might be blinded with surprise. 

On the inner window-case, 
With his humid wing and face, 
He had anything but grace ; 

Whilst the mad, reminding rain. 
To the vibratory pane. 
Brought its horrible refrain. 



CULEX IN CARMINE. 83 

There upon the window-sill, 
He was sitting, dreary, still, 
In the terror of a chill; 

But within his little soul. 
He was grateful for the hole 
That allowed him such a goal. 

So he brushed his little eye, 
Saying, " Maybe by and by 
I'll be comfortably dry." 

And exactly as he planned 

AVith his stoicism grand, 

Both his dripping wings were fanned, 

For a breeze appeai-ed to flout 
In the chamber all about, 
And the taper there went out. 

Then his eyes began to mark. 
By their tiny inner spark. 
What there was within the dark. 

It was very plain that he, 
With a candle burning free. 
Found it difficult to see. 



84 CULEX IN CARMINE. 

But his eyes, denied their sight 
In the waxen taper light, 
Were exceeding good at night. 

By and by, at last he tried, 

With a flutter at his side, 

And his little wings were dried ; 

And the still existing breeze 
Brought a very pleasant ease, 
To the bending of his knees. 

Then he fervently exclaimed ! 
" Now I wish I may be blamed 
If I 'n^ either wet or lamed." 

And he tried a tune of his 'n, 
Quite a striking kind of bwzzin', 
" I 'm your Cousin, Cousin, Cousin ! ' 



And as joyously he sings. 
All around about he flings, 
" Cousin, Cousin," with his wings. 



Then he went upon a raid, 
Through the heavy-curtained shade, 
'Till he came upon the maid. 



CULEX IN CARMINE. 85 

And its meet and proper hero 
That a reason should apj^ear 
Why he tarried there with her. 

So, the fact is simply this, 
When he came upon the Miss, 
He was famished for a kiss. 



Now, the coldest man we know, 

Coming on the Houri so. 

For the very same would "go." 



And it is n't fair to think, 

A mosquito on the brink 

Of a nectar-cup — won't drink. 

Splendid type of angel sleep I 
Fairer than the pillows' heap. 
Lying there in silence deep — 

Who will blame him while he dips 
From the vintage of her lips, 
Keddor wine than Bacchus sips? 

Less impassioned things of earth, 
Seeing such, would know their worth. 
Feel it in a fever birth. 



CULEX IN CARMINE. 

Any statue, wanting life, 

Neai'ing lips so passion-rife. 

Soon would wake to pulsing strife. 

So the glad mosquito sank 
Joyous on the fruity tank, 
And to utter fullness drank. 

Better far the cruel rain, 
Thrumming on the window-pane, 
Fell upon his wing again — 

Better far the shutter's swing. 
Caught his cousin-crying wing, 
Never more to let it sing. 

Better he had known a drouth 
In the marshes of the South, 
Than the nectar of her mouth. 

Early morning, fair and sweet, 
Found him helpless on a sheet — 
Glassy eye and icy feet. 

Butterfly and humble-bee. 
For the coroner's decree, 
Early came the corpse to see — 



CULEX IN CARMINE. 



87 



Laid him oul upon tlie floor, 
Scanned his body o'er and o'er 
As it never was before. 

After consultation slow, 
Pro and con, and so and so, 
There they let the insects know 

" This mosquito, lying dead. 
By the female in that bed, 
Pizined was with carmine red." 




THE COURT OF BEKLIJN". 

ING Frederick of Prussia grew nervous and ill 
^ "When pacing his chamber one day, 
Because of the sound of a crazy old mill 
That clattered so over the way. 

" Ho, miller ! " cried he, " What sum shall you take 

In lieu of that wretched old shell ? 
It angers my brain, and it keeps me awake " — 

Said the miller, " I want not to sell." 

"But you must," said the King— in a passion for once- 
'• But I won't," said the man in a heat. 

" Grods ! this to my face? Ye are daft or a dunce — 
We can raze your old mill to the street." 

'Ayo, true, my good sire, if such be your mood," 

Then answered the man with a grin ; 
" But never you '11 move it the tenth of a rood 

As long as there 's law at Berlin." 

(88) 



THE COURT OF BERLIN. 



S9 



" Good, good," Baid the Kin<; — for tlic answer was grand 

As ojiposing the Law to the Crown — 
" We bow to the Court, and the mill it shall stand, 

Though even the palace come doAvn." 




THE LAST LEAF. 

T last I find the slighted page, 
On which no favored name 
Is dedicate to fame. 

I write my own, and from this age, 
Go out the sj^lendid years 
With trooping knights of hcr's. 

What more could life's ambition crave. 
Than just to write and live? 
What more can labor give ? 

Hereby I rise from out tlic grave. 
And take a life in stone 
For one of dust unknown. 

(90) 




MAY IN MASON, 1775. 

jHERE Limestone, with her gathered rills, 
f7 A roeky passage follows ; 
Where Lawrence, breaking through the hills, 

Beats down the lonesome hollows ; 
The woods were dark and dense above, 

The canes were dank below, 
When houseless lay the city's cove 
An hundred 3-ears ago. 

In narrow way, by gidcli and knoll. 

The brown deer broke his bearing; 
The grey wolf made the sloping mole 

An ambush for his faring ; 
The stately elk, with antlers wide, 

The nose-down buffalo, 
Their lickward way went side by side, 

An hundred years ago. 

(91) 



92 MAF IN MASON, 1775. 

The blue Ohio, gulfward bound, 

Ran ripples on the border, 
Where nature gave the wanton ground 

Her winning, wild disorder. 
Nor sound of bell, nor sigh of steam, 

JSTor oar-sweep creaking slow — 
The river lay a liquid dream 

An hundred years ago. 

The web-fowl nested in the sloo 

Beside the sliding otter ; 
The red maid, in her bark canoe, 

Just skimmed the slumb'roiis water; 
The red man took the wareless game 

With sinew-twanging bow. 
Till Kenton's cracking rifle came, 

An hundred years ago. 

An hundred years ! What time ! What change ! 

To him who kej)t the tally, 
Till balder grew the bounding range. 

And hn»j gi-ew the valley. 
There floats the smoke of forge and mill, 

That tireless ply below. 
Where stood the white cane, stark and still, 

An hundred years ago. 



MAV JX MASON, 1775. 93 

The willows died upon the shore, 

The beeches lost their gloiy ; 
The t!;iunt, white-harkrd s^-cumorc 

But lingers still in story. 
Now smoother wa^ys go down the bank, 

To meet the water's flow — 
It never knew a steamer's ]>lank 

An hundred years ago. 

These fallow lands that laugh to-day 

In summer's mulling juices, 
From Avanlon sleep and idle play, 

Were brought to truer uses; 
And daring hands were on the plow 

That broke the primal row, 
To see the tasseled corn-tops bow, 

An hundred years ago. 

The settler found his savage foes. 

In every copse appearing, 
And death was in the smoke that rose. 

Above the earh^ clearing ; 
The toil was hard, the danger groat. 

The progress doubtful, slow; 
But these were men who made the State 

An hundred years ago. 



94 MAT IN MASON, 1775. 

Now closures grand and pastures green 

Are blocked about the Granges, 
And goodly herds and homes are seen 

Along the olden ranges — 
The busy city rings with toil, 

The steamers come and go — 
God bless the brawn that broke the soil 

An hundred years ago. 

No longer in her bark canoe, 

The red maid skims the river ; 
The web-fowl's nestling from the sloo 

Has winged away forever ; 
A single line these lands abrade, 

The lick-bound buffalo 
Has left till now, the trace he made 

An hundred years ago. 

So let us leave our trace behind. 

And wear it broader, deeper, 
That coming man may bring to mind 

The courses of the sleeper — 
That after days may see our toil 

And women praise us so ; 
As brawny men who broke the soil 

An hundred years ago. 



PTTHIAlf LINES. 

•^^lli Kiii<;-hts, when first to social vvays 
•^^ Our early fathers turned, 
Ere in the rudo, primeval days 

Their forest altars burned ; 
Before the Druids felt the dawn 

Of reason at their feasts, 
Or brought to shoulders bare and brawn 

The pelts of preying beasts ; 

Before the compact of our kind, 

B}^ which, to human rules, 
Was bent tlie sway of savage mind 

In germinating schools, 
Man kept his law (tf force above. 

And lived by strength iilone, 
Nov kindred claim, nov common love 

Nor civil bond was known. 

(95) 



96 PTTHIAN LINES. 

The faint traditions of tiie past, 

Brought up the tongues of Time 
Through maze of race, and creed, and caste, 

In dust, and rust, and rime, 
Have told how in the Asia-plains 

A virgin sod was thrown, 
How from its sparsel}^ scattered grains 

A cultured world has c;rown. 



The gray, historic stones that stand 

Along the backward aisles, 
To point the progress of the land. 

As though by measured miles. 
Are weather-stained, and still, and stark, 

And crumbling to the base. 
But still their iron closures mark 

The onward reach of G-race. 

Thus, step by step, the world has grown,- 

The civil creed prevailed ; 
Its grand estate, to-day, is shown 

For other heirs entailed. 
And generations yet to come 

Shall backward turn with smiles 
To point the solid shaft and dome 
We structure in the aisles. 



PYTHIAN LINES. 97 

Whilst yet the Christian era slept 

Unopened to the years, 
And savage bands their victims swept 

To pai^an sepulchres; 
Some faitli from man to man was plight, 

Some sj-mpathies were born, 
And human kind from out the niirht, 

Beheld the break of morn. 

From ancient and luroic Greece ; 

From 'neath the walls of Rome; 
From times of war and times of peace, 

Our stately fables come. 
The annals of the olden world — 

For honor now avails — 
And give, in vellum scrolls unfurled, 

Their mythic moral tales. 

Of one of these was born the tic 

That binds the Pj'thic clan ; 
Was caught the heat of honor high 

That Aveldeth man to man — 
From out the forge of primal days 

Wc hear the hammer's beat, 
Where metal to the metal lays 

And makes the bond complete. 



93 PYTHIAN LINES. 

Yo Pythic Pages here, who wear 

The myrtle in your breasts ; 
Te proved Esquires who proudly bear 

The shield above your crests; 
Ye brave, chivalric Knights, whose feet 

Have borne the test of steel, 
Who wear your helmets now to meet 

The foes of common weal. 

The misty days that lie beyond 

This cj^cle of your lives, 
Shall keep the record of your bond 

In golden -bound archives ; 
Shall tune for you their sweetest reeds, 

And lengthen and prolong 
The music-story of your deeds, 

To everlasting song. 

As hostoges ye stand to-day, 

Confiding to the last ; 
That yet shall come, from down the way 

The Damons of the past 
Though steeds may fail and foes may snare, 

And leagues may intervene ; 
3!^o wall shall stay the friends that wear 

The sprigs of myrtle green. 



PYTHIAN LINES. 



99 



Then keep your friendship pure and true, 

With caution wear your shields; 
No foes shall strike their lances through 

The bravo hearts in the fields ; 
And when the living days have died 

And ritcd been and knelled, 
All coming Knights shall note with pride 

The confidence ye held. 




THE CEO WW ON GUAED 



HE Emperor Solyman, holding his Pleas, 
On taking the town of Belgrade, 
Observing a woman, bent down on her knees, 
Demanded what trouble she had? 



" My liege, I am widowed, alone, and in dole — 
Last night, as I lay in my sleep, 
Your soldiers came into my closure and stole 
The whole of my poultry and sheep." 



" Why slept you so well— and the robbers about ?" 

Then Solyman said with a sneer. 
" Oh, sire, when the Emperor watehetli without, 

How can a poor woman have fear?" 

(100) 



OUE DEAD. 

i ND slill a, mindful people turns 
To such as wear their crosses, 
Beneath a way of waving ferns 
And interwoven mosses. 

And still, with knots and crates of bloom. 

With soonest blowing roses, 
They come to break the night of gloom 

That o'er the hero closes. 

Here yet, by fingers deft from love. 
The wild vine's tendril 's matted, 

In tribute wreaths and crowns are wove, 
And lissom garlands plaited. 

Here yet, the new-strewn immortelles 

Of memory are saying, 
As tender-fresh as if the bells 

A dying chime were playing. 

(lOl) 



102 OUR DEAD. 

And years have been, and years may be, 
And still shall gather yearly 

The fettered souls beside the free — 
The dead they love so dearly. 



And still shall freshest garlands fall 
From loving hands in showers, 

O'er fragments of the crumbled wall 
That closed the Land of Flowers. 



Here sleep the brave, the good, the true, 
The trusting and the daring ; 

The great, that in their living grew 
The laurels they are wearing. 

The battle-stains are on their breasts, 
The battle- currents clotted — 

An index on the outer vests 
Of inner men unspotted. 

An hundred mounds are circled near — 

An hundred heroes under; 
An hundred knights that ne'er shall hear 

Again the battle's thunder. 



OUR DEAD. 103 

But o'er the turf in drooping fold, 

With broken staff, a banner 
Shall keep their knightly prowess told 

In true chivalric manner. 



Among the mounds are some whose names 
Upon the stones are missing — 

Who fell in front too soon for Fame's 
As for the motlier's kissinjr. 

The brave "unknown " in martial pride 
And honored here and knighte ] ; 

We only know a hero died — 
A soldier's home was bli<jhted. 



Be still, sad bells ! Where Hanson lies 
Ten thousand tongues arc telling; 

The wailing of a ]X'0])le rise 
Be3'ond an iron knelling. 

What need to wake a mournful tone 

Upon an anthem organ, 
Whilst broken rusts the sword that shone 

Above the plume of Morgan ? 



104 OUR DEAD. 

What founts Kentucky starts for one, 
Of all her dead the newest ; 

For Breckinridge — her peerless son, 
Her proudest and her truest ! 

There shrouded lies her latest gift 
To God, and Fame, and Stor}^, 

Whose going left a golden rift 
Upon the skies of glory. 

It may not be that in our day 
Yon blighted land will blossom — 

The land for which their coats of gray 
Grew crimson on the bosom ; 

But time will come at last for all, 
When from these mounds of ours 

The Master hand shall build the wall 
That closed the Land of Flowers. 




PAESON GILES. 

T was not from deartli of churches, 
^ In the plain of vernal birches, 
And its marge of uplands brown. 
That the Sabbath crowds were gathered, 
And their scores of horses tethered 
In the precincts of the town. 

It Avns not that zealous trj^ing 
In the chancels there, was dying. 

Or the watch-lamps burning low ; 
That the wooded fanes were slighted. 
And their silent aisles benighted 

By a worship wandered fro. 

It was not from weaker passion 
For the press of morbid fashion 

On the virtue of the place ; 
JSTor for any solace sweeter 
Than the sacred music-meter, 

And the cup of perfect grace. 

(105) 



106 PARSON GILES. 

There was such ii world of teaching 
In the earnest, honest preaching 

Of the pleasant Parson Giles, 
That a Sabbath morning's ringing 
Of his service bell was bringing 

All the country in for miles. 

From the sweat and strain of tillage, 
They were turning to the village, 

Through its avenues and lanes; 
Making desolate the granges 
Of the outer-sleeping ranges, 

And the inner-sweej^ing plains. 

Not because his words were burning 
With a brilliancy of learning, 

In an ignorance and gloom ; 
Not because he went in roses 
Through his sermons to their closes, 

"With a scatter of perfume ; 

But for reason that a feeling 
Came, the real man revealing 

In his preaching's every part ; 
Till the eyes about him glistened 
With a fervor, as they listened 

To the droppings of his heart. 



PARSON GILES. 107 

Now it chances, in our courses. 
That Avc meet these stronger forces, 

Though the circumstance is rare ; 
And we note, through sharp attrition 
With a cunning world's ambition, 

Who its real giants arc. 

Men of Adam's form and feature 
Seek to rise above the creature, 

And to spurn their brother clods ; 
Egots, saying to the masses : 
"Ye are dying things and asses — 

We ai'e living things and gods 1 " 

These are of that wearing real, 
But the wanton, frail ideal, 

That so often leads astray, 
And the glamoured world, in sorrow, 
Sees the fouling mold to-morrow, 

Of its thing divine to-day. 

For the truer, better sample 
Of the Maker's cunning ample 

Cometh not from such as these ; 
Not from such as give their faces 
To the peopled corner-places. 

With the faith of Pharisees : 



108 PARSON GILES. 

Bather men, whose finer natures 
Turn their pulses to the creatui-es 

Of an ever-falling kind, 
Such as bend beside the kneeling. 
More with plenitude of feeling 

Than with plentitude of mind. 

To the trusting eyes of woman 
Parson Giles was more than human — 

Grood beyond the better ken ; 
As his simple thoughts were worded, 
So his ways in life were gaai'ded, 

And he held respect of men. 

For the souls that went in blindness 
He was full of tender kindness. 

And he sought the beaten way. 
That to such his clearer vision 
Might deline the grand Elysian 

Of the shining final day. 

So a Sabbath morning's ringing 
Of his service bell was bringing 

All the country in for miles — 
There was such a world of teaching 
In the earnest, honest preaching, 

Of the pleasant Parson Giles. 



PARSON GILES. 109 

Dwelling in the Christian manor, 
Billy Jones, the village tanner, 

Stood without the temple door — 
He, alone, of all the people, 
In the shadow of its steeple, 

Never knelt upon the floor. 

Not because he held in scorninor 
Any service on the morning 

Of the blessed Sabbath day ; 
For the time had been, with Billy, 
When his life ran not so illy. 

And his boyhood knew to pray. 

Those who saw his daily going 
With the silent, certain flowing 

Of an open ocean's tide. 
Truly said that something other 
Than the teaching of his mother, 

Turned his compass-point aside. 

It was clear to every neighbor, 
There was frequent, heavy labor 

In the breathing of his wife. 
And the village knew a reason 
For the taAvny tanner's treason 

To the promise of his life. 



110 PARSON GILES. 

Not to deal in further hinting, 
Billy bore the scourge of vinting, 

Like a self-abusing monk, 
And his plain, unsteady swaying, 
Gave an honest ground for saying 

He was very often drunk. 

So he kept beyond the reaching 
Of the Parson's better teaching, 

Never coming in his wake — 
Giving up the spirits, drinking 
From a cup of sober thinking, 

For the morbid stomach's sake. 

All the deacons and the members 
Saw the rapid djnng embers 

In the wicked tanner's soul ; 
And the case was gravely mooted 
As to who was better suited 

There to win him from the bowl. 

Brother Brown, his nearest neighbor, 
" Couldn't undertake the labor, 

Having failed already twice; 
But he saw redemption in him, 
And if any man could win him, 

It was surely brother Price." 



PARSON GILES. Ill 

" You raiist single out another," 
Answered quietly the brother, 

" I have made the effort too ; 
I have sought him working, walking, 
And have done a sight of talking, 

Till I saw it would n't do." 

Then it was that Deacon Carson 
Made a mention of the Parson, 

As the proper one of all — 
Better suited, better able. 
To dispel the shadow sable 

Hiding Billy like a pall. 

So the Parson took the office, 
Feeling not unlike a novice 

In a case so trj'ing hard ; 
And he seized that very minute 
To establish and begin it, 

Going down to Billy's yard. 

" I believe, sir, you'll excuse me. 
And I think you'll not refuse me, 

What I very seldom pray — 
For I rather shrink from drumming — 
Will you favor me by coming 
To my preaching Sabbath day?" 



112 PARSON GILES. 

Billy Jones was not in liquor, 

Yet liis voice was somewhat thicker 

Than a sober man's should be ; 
And his nerves were slightly shaken, 
Though, j^erhaps, he had n't taken 

Of his measures more than three. 

And he seemed a little worried. 
For he turned the skin he curried, 

In a foolish sort of way ; 
Looking sidelong at his measure — 
" I will give myself the pleasure, 
Sir, to hear you Sabbath day." 

When the Sunday morning's ringing 
Of the meeting-bell was bringing 

All the people with its tones, 
Unto one it came appalling, 
For the tanner heard it calling 

Very plainly : " Bil-ly Jones." 

" Bil-ly Jones," it said, so truly. 
That the tanner answered duly 

And he sought the chapel door ; 
And the eyes of all were centered, 
As, with timid step, he entered 

Where he never did before. 



PARSON GILES. 113 

Parson Giles felt liiglily honored 
When he saw the sinner cornered, 

For, at least, the coming hour, 
And he praj'etl Avith greater fervor 
For the soiil of Satan's server. 

And he preached with greater power. 

In a sermon, terse and graphic, 
He besieged the liquor traffic, 

And he held its terror up, 
Till he painted eveiy sorrow 
That the human soul could borrow 

From the Satan of the Cup. 

Somewhat late that Sabbath even, 
"When a cloud went up the heaven 

Like a gloomy, hooded monk, 
There was heard the heav}^ mutter 
Of a being in the gutter — 

Eilly Jones was very drunk. 

Thus a hope of saving smothers 
In the deacons and the brothers : 

" He is lost in Satan's wiles — 
He is gone be3^ond t!ie reaching 
Of the most effective preaching 

Of the godly Parson Giles." 



114 PAFSON GILES. 

But the Parson saw his beacons 
Giving light bej'ond the deacons 

And the brothers of the pLice ; 
There was something rather winning 
In the man's defiant sinning — 

And a courage in his face. 

So he sought again the tanner, 
With another sort of banner 

Than the pennant of his church — 
Like the youth of proud desire, 
Crying " Higher ! Higher! Higher!" 

Till he perished in the search. 

" William Jones, I come to offer 
What an honest man may proffer 

With a noble aim and end ; 
I would like to know you better, 
Through the sacred bond and fetter 

Of a true and steadfast friend." 

Billy, then and there, was batting 
Down the tannin in his vatting, 

With a not unsteady hand ; 
Looking much as if he could n't — 
Or, most likely, if he would n't — 

Just exactly understand. 



PARSON GILES. 115 

"It is not a worthless present,' 
Said the Parson, looking pleasant — 

"Not a sinij)le work ol' art; 
But the dearest thing- tliat nature 
Ever gives a human creature — 

I am come to give my heart." 

Perhaps from out the tumor 
Of his vices, Billy's humor 

Of the lower order came — 
Though he ver}' seldom fretted. 
Yet he spoke and soon regretted, 

With a quite apparent shame. 

"Have you such a might of yearning 
Just to stop the little burning 

In the soul of such an elf? 
If you have, I '11 tell you, Parson, 
Its the clearest case of arson — 

I have set the match myself." 

Then he went on thumping, thumping. 
With his heav}'- pestle bumping 
In tlie corners of the vat — 
" So he does n't like my drinking ; " 
Bill}' then was douLtlcss thinking — 
" W^onder what he thinks of that ! " 



116 PARSON GILES. 

But tlie Parson not responding, 
Billy felt a certain bonding, 

Though he did n't see the band ; 
And he turned upon the preacher — 
" You shall be my friend and teacher ; 
Here 's a wiclied devil's hand." 

Then began a true alliance 

' Twixt the two, in sin's defiance ; 

And the Parson's Sabbath tones, 
When his mellow bells were calling, 
Never fiailed to have a falling 

On the ear of Billy Jones. 

But, at intervals, a ripple 
Of the tanner's olden tipple 

Made a music in his throat, 
Till its sullen under-towing 
Set him to the breakers going, 

In a very crazy boat. 

More than once, the common treason 
Of his stomach to his reason. 

Bore him out upon the night ; 
And his morrow's homeward swaying 
Set the neighbors all a-saying, 

"Billy Jones is in a plight." 



P.inSOX GILES. 117 

Yot the Parson never faltered ; 
Billj', sure, was somewhat altered, 

And it very clearlj' seemed, 
That with little harder trjing. 
He might keep the man from dying, 

And he yet might be redeemed. 

So the bonds were closer riven, 
And the Parson's pulses given 

More than ever to the man ; 
In the change of time and weather. 
They were still allied together. 

And their ways together ran. 

JMow and then, but far less frequent, 
Billy found the olden sequent 

In the gutters of the town ; 
And the Parson, constant near him. 
Did the best to guide and cheer him, 

And to save his falling down. 

But at last the race is ended. 
And his broken life is mended ; 

And the country round for miles 
Gives the meed of earnest praising 
To the hand that did the raising. 

And the heart of Parson Giles. 



118 PARSON GILES. 

So a Sabbath morning's ringing 
Of his meeting-bell was bringing 

All the people with its tones ; 
And the bell was never calling 
But the Parson's voice was foiling 

On the ear of Billy Jones. 

When the winter days were coming, 
And the chilly breezes humming 

In the birches and the pines, 
When the riven leaves were shoaling 
To the valleys in their rolling 

From the barren mother vines. 

In the dead of night a groaning, 
Heard above the common moaning, 

Brought the people to their doors ; 
For the voice w:»s surely human, 
And it sounded so uncommon, 

That they gathered out in scores. 

In the open highway lying, 
It was " sure a mortal dying," 

From the wailing and the groans; 
But a little nearer vision 
Brought the piteous decision — 

" He is drunk, and — Billy Jones.'^ 



PAIiSON GILES. 119 

" How is tliat," said Deacon Carson, 
"Ilowas hero to find the Parson 
But a little time ago ? 
Arc 3'ou surely not mistaken?" 
And tl)c voiec came to the Deacon 
With a melancholy " No." 

" Bring him in and lot us sec him ; 
Wo arc sure it can not be him," 

Said a dozen men or more — 
So they i-aised the swaying body 
In its atmosphere of toddj', 

And they brought it to the door. 

Where the lamp-light's lurid streaming 
Fell upon it with the beaming 

Of a ver}' demon's smiles, 
And their souls in liorror fluttered 
When the blanching Deacon uttered : 

" God of Ileaven ! Parson Giles!" 

Thus it was, the quiet village, 
And its outei- bound of tillage, 

Saw the rise of Billy Jones. 
From the bitter sloui'-h of drinking ; 
He was now of sober-thinking 

And a man of steady tones. 



120 



PARSON GILES. 



In their goodness they had sought him, 
They had bargained for and bought him, 

All the country round for miles — 
They had caught him will-he, nil-he, 
And were owners now of Billy, 

At the price of — Parson Giles. 

Thus the Parson won the tanner 
With another cort of banner, 

Than the pennant of his chui'ch — 
Like the boy of bold desire 
Crying "Higher! Higher! Higher!" 

He has perished in the search. 




OMNIPOTENS YEEITAS. 

^^OT the slightest breath of air 
^i Made a murmur anywhere 
In her majesty's parterre ; 

Kot a zei)hyr in the bounds 
Of the pretty palace grounds 
Went its odorating rounds ; 

In the atmosphere's embrace, 
All the roses of the place 
Took a paleness in the face; 

From the staring noon-sun rude, 
All the Calla lilies nude. 
Leaned away in lassitude. 

It was such a brazen day, 
That the fishes would not play 
From the hidings where they lay; 

(121) 



122 OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 

For the pool — a perfect glass 
la the framework of the grass — 
IsTever felt a ripple pass, 

And the under-peering iront, 
From the water-plants about, 
Did not dare to glitter out, 

When they could not choose but see, 
From the fud'xwg fleur- de-lis, 
Such a mirrored misery. 

We would always rather not 
Find it quite so burning hot 
In the most inviting spot; 

But it's one of Nature's Avays 
Thus to sprinkle in her days 
Just a little bit of blaze ; 

So that folk may keep an eye 

To the chances, by and by, 

For the weather — when they die. 

Hidden in the deeper shades — 
Loosened robes and lissom braids — 
Lay the royal lady's maids; 



OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. ]23 

Hidden from the greater heat, 

In tlie leajier retreat, 

Under dropijiiig blossoms sweet, 

Where a prett}- pink and gi'een 
Came the earth and sk}- between, 
Lay Her Majesty — the Queen ! 

And it 's quite enough to know 
That the meshy, misty flow 
Of her lace was very low — 

Quite enough, beyond a doubt, 
Were it you or I without. 
To be putting us to routj 

For there 's nothing half so rude 
As the spirit to intrude 
On a lady's solitude. 

But the branches disengage 
To a i)retty, dapper page, 
With his privilege of age; 

Till beyond the jealous vines 
He may see the lissom lines 
Of the royal feminines. 



12^4 OMNIPOTEKS VERITAS. 

(I confess a sort of spleen 
For these fellows of fifteen — 
They 're so very slow to wean.) 

•' If youi' Majesty so please, 
Here 's a man from over seas 
With a show of cunning fleas." 

There was dearth of every sort 
Of entertainment then, or sport, 
In the precincts of the court- 

For the days were coated o'er 
With a burning, hot glamour, 
And the nights — a stupid bore. 

So the startled ladies rose 
From their semi sort of doze, 
In a scantiness of clo'es; 

And with pretty shoulders bare. 

To the apparition there 

They returned the sudden stare. 

" Cunning fleas ! now tell us, pray," 

Said the maids in disarray — 
" Cunning fleas — and vvhat are they ? " 



OMNIPOTEXS VERITAS. 125 

Then the dapper chap replied, 
With a show of knowledge, pride, 
" Tiiey are insects taught to rido — 

" Taught to hop about and dance, 
At a motion or a glance. 
And their native place is France." 

And his terminating word — 
Quite the ])laincst one they heard — 
Touched a very tender chord ; 

Not a touch — a perfect Avrench, 
For a woman, wife or wench, 
Covets anything that 's French. 

So they prayed the (Jueen that she — 
Since they 'd never seen a flea — 
Yery gracious now should be. 

And the languid lady Bess,* 
Hitching up her foamy dress. 
Very graciously said — Yes. 



* This incident, in a slightly modified form, is said to have act- 
uiilly occurred at the court of Queen Elizabeth, though it is 
somotinu'S located elsewhere. 



126 OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 

And the man from over seas, 

With his educated fleas, 

Came and fell upon his knees — 

Fell upon the grassy place, 
"With a very French grimace. 
Which was understood as grace ; 

And his tiny team appears, 
Twenty Liliputian deers, 
In their homeopathic gears. 

And they move around a sheet, 
Now advance and now retreat, 
With a carriage all complete, 

Whilst a wonder and surprise 
Is besprinkled on the skies 
Of a dozen splendid eyes. 

And "their graces" crowd about, 

In a timid sort of doubt. 

Lest a flea should struggle out ; 

Lest the whiteness of a breast 
Should invito a little guest 
To a refuge and a rest. 



OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 127 

(They were apt to tempt hira so 
In the vicinage and show 
Of their hices lying low.) 

And it happened so at last, 
As the carriage rattled past 
That a flea became unfast. 

The little wi'ctch upon her, 
A pretty maid of honor, 
Was suddenly a goner. 

Now it may have been the chance, 
That the rascal in his dance 
Caught the pretty woman's glance; 

And it may have been that he 
In a ver}^ slight degree, 
Was a hunianated flea; 

For it should n't give surprise 
If a splendid woman's ej-es 
Such a thing should humanize. 

So to cause him break a trace 
To be roving in the lace 
Of a fair forbidden place, 



128 OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 

When, perhaps, the insect knew, 
What the Bible holds as true. 
That "no man would there pursue." 

We are very apt to be 

On the side of those that flee 

To the land of liberty ; 

But the master claimed his own. 
Though the little slave had gone 
To a vastly freer zone. 

To another jilace of shade, 

Yery nervous and afraid, 

Ean the startled, blushing maid — 

Left the others in the lurch, 
And beneath a friendly birch, 
Went to instituting search. 

How her nimble fingers flew 
All the sacred places through, 
Is denied to me and you. 

We may only fancy where, 
In the lacy meshes there, 
He was captured in despair. 



OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 129 

We may only wish to be, 
Foi- ;i little time, the flea, 
In his land of liberty. 

But a tardy moment past, 
Now the lady comes at last. 
Holding something very fast. 

And the fellow takes her hand 
With a smile exceeding bland, 
At the honor " vere grande." 

He recovers now his flea 
From the palpitating she, 
In a perfect ecstasy. 

But all joys are ever fleet, 
And this triumph in retreat 
Left a misery complete. 

For his face was ovcrtost 
With the sudden white of frost— 
" Zis is not ze flea I lost !" 

Now the world was out of tune 
On the sultry afternoon 
Of that brazen day in June, 



X30 OMNIPOTENS VERITAS. 

But it 's one of Nature's ways 
Thus to sprinkle in her days 
Just a little bit of blaze, 

So that folks may keep an eye 
To the chances, by and by, 
For the weather when they die ! 

In the days of green or brown, 
Let us keep our vices down. 
That we may not miss the crown 

Let us keep our bosoms free 
From the world's iniquity, 
And give up the proper flea. 




"FEOM ME TO YOU." 

MUST not write — 't is better licro 
To let the pure, white page appear I 
I must not speak — the gossip-air 
Might give an echo everywhere ; 
No words of love, however true. 
Should ever pass from me to you. 

I must not whisper how, at night, 
I meet you in the still starlight. 
1 must not whisper how it seems 
I love you dearly in my dreams. 
Nay, nay, I 'm sure it would not do — 
Such words as these from me to you. 

What if I met you in the grove. 
And held your hand and told my love? 
What if you turned away and wept 
Or spoke me tender whilst I slept? 
It is not wrong to dream, 't is true, 
But should I tell my dream to you ? 
(1.31) 



132 



''FROM ME TO YOU." 



What if I pressed your finger-tips, 

And gathered sweetness from your lips? 

What if I lingered still and placed 

An arm about a slender waist? 

Say, would you have the dream come true, 

Such love as this from me to you. 

Awake, I could not dare to seek 

The peachy softness of your cheek — 

Awake, you might not even brook 

The sweet appealing of a look. 

I will not speak — until it be 

The look has come from you to me. 





GAMBRINUS. 

|H|IIEX the leaves began to settle 
In a crimson, crisp and brittle, 
On the bosom of the Rhine, 
Somewhat cold, and more than sober, 
Came the gold and gray October, 
To the land of fruit and vine. 

Here and there, along the fallow. 
Tangled hops hung dry and yellow 

In the Autumn's failing sun ; 
And the ravaged grape-fields, lying 
Over all the fells, were sighing ; 

"■ This the vintager hath done." 

Ravaged truly, for the juices 
Of the clusters, down the sluices 

Of the presses, ran to must; 
And the gnarly tendons, riven 
Of their substance, thus were given 

To the griming and the rust. . 
(i:'.3) 



134 GAMBRINUS. 

- It was sadder, far, than sober, 
When the golden, cold October, 

Breaking down the North's incline, 
Hurtled South — a crashing missile. 
To the frond, and fruit and thistle, 

Of the silent-going JRhine. 

It was not so good a season 
For the callow man's unreason, 

As the throbbing days of spring; 
When the blood-valves start and flutter, 
And the eyes grow dense to utter 

What the tongue is slow to sing. 

But, beneath a browning maple. 
Where the sun, in yellow dapple. 

Made its flecking at his feet, 
Somewhat branch-inclosed, and hooded, 
Young G-umbrinus lay and brooded 

In a bitterness complete. 

For it seemed this stormy feature 
Kept its tiding in his nature, 

Spite of all the Autumn's chill, 
And his saps of love were going 
In a ceaseless, fever- flowing 

To i\\Q frmdein at the mill. 



GAMBRINUS. 135 

Sweet-eyed Grotchen — fresh and splendid, 
In her lines of beauty, blended 

Twixt the Avonian and the girl ; 
Fair-faeed Gretchen, blithe and riant — 
Graced of form and litlie and pliant. 

As the winding of her curl. 

Keeping watch to intercept her, 
As the singing mill-maid kept her 

Leaf}' V7i\y around the hill ; 
He was planning how to freshen 
Then his suit, with some expression, 

Than his strongest — stronger still. 

Time on time, with fervid passion. 
He had tried his speech to fashion 

So to fill her with his dole ; 
So to bring her coy defiance, 
Into love's dlsti'aught alliance — 

Hand to hand, and soul to soul. 

' Hear my plea, ! cruel Gretchen ! " 
Words of heat he sought to etch in 

Lines of fire on his brain ; 
When her notes, all clear, all sweetness, 
Toned and round to all completeness. 

Fell upon him like the rain. 



136 OAMBPdNUS. 

Starting up, he stood and met her, 
As she broke the leafy fetter 

Of her crisping careless way : 
" G-retchcn ! " — That was all he uttered 
Lost the rest — he faltered, muttered — 

Tongue and eye and brain astray. 

There before hiui, proudly taking 
Freer lines of queenly making, 

Giving sense of strong surprise ; 
Full her regal presence spurned him, 
And her scorning withered, burned him 

Through the furnace of her eyes. 

" G-et you gone ! I make no frothing 
With a kerl who counts for nothing — 

Stand aside and let me pass! " 
Oh, the sudden, sudden stinging! 
Back he shrank — and she went singing 
Down the Autumn's faded grass. 

Then the reddened sun went over. 
And, anon, the silent river 

Caught the moon-spears glinting down ; 
And the gray-stalked water lily. 
And the tinted wood lay stilly, 

And the mead and distant town. 



GAMBRINUS. 137 

On a rock, the Ithinc o'errcacliini^, 
Stood Gambrinus, death beseeching 

From the silent underflow — 
Fixed of purpose : " I am nothing — 
Be my wooing — be my trothing, 

With the waters here below." 

Not so fast, good friend, I pray you — 
There be reason to delay you — 

Would you make a time to die ? 
Would you culminate this fever 
Into dismal pain forever, 

And the Dcily defy. 

" Take ni}' word — it 's worse than folly, 
Thus to yield to melancholy, 

And to nullify your life — 
With a plunge, to make it shorter 
By a single day, in water 

For a woman — not a wife. 

"I admit — did Hymen's mangle 
Press 3-0U sorely, you would strangle 

With a better show of grace; 
But to break your brimming cruses 
Just because a maid refuses. 
Is a most outracccous case. 



138 GAMBRINUS. 

" You must live sir — live to shame her — 
(You could never live to tame her 

In the propagating bond), 
Live to have her sigh and sue 3"on 
With a longing to beshrew you 

When you cease to be so fond. 

" For myself, it isn't pleasant 
To deter you, but at present 

I am rather full below ; 
And 1 find it awkward firing 
For the tide that 's never tiring, 
Never ceasing in its flow. 

"You may live in peace and pleasure — 
Pride and glory without measure, 

For the coming thirty years 
I will make you wiser, richer 
Than the maid who broke the pitcher, 

And who wept the pearly tears. 

"You shall live, I swear, to fetch 
Such a rare remorse to Gretchen, 

That she '11 come and sue ' the kerl,' 
And when you find you 'vc caught her. 
You can spurn the miller's daughter. 

And mayhap, the Kaiser's girl." 



GAMBRINUS. 139 

l^^ow, of course, Gambrinus hearkcnod, 
For llic way was dank and darUened, 

To the quiet underneath ; 
So he forced a smile, and turning : 
" I prefer remoter burning, 

And accejit the further death." 

" Well, good friend, the pact is settled, 
Be you proud and proper mettled, 

When the miller's maid appears ; 
Shuu all women — keep you steady; 
Be you brave and — bo you ready 

At the end of thirty years." 

Then the form in green grew faded. 
Till the last faint line was shaded. 

And the last light shadow fled; 
And the saved and lost Gambrinus, 
Pius his life, and Gretcben minus, 

AVandered home and went to bed. 

Now, Gambrinus Avas a fiddler. 
Or, in equal words, an idler, 

For ho kept no honest call. 
And his fitter days for sowing, 
Were declining fast and going 

Very fleetly into fall. 



140 GAMBRINUS. 

He bad wasted days for graping. 
In a dreamy, dreary scraping 

Over vibratory strings, 
Wben he migbt have borne the clusters 
To the brawny, lusty musters, 

To the end of better things. 

But the morrows come, and gilders 
Crowd upon him till he wilders 

In the rocks about the fells ; 
And, the devil for his Mentor — 
He became the glad inventor 

Of the m^usic-making bells. 

All around the hills with rhyming, 
Then his chiming bells went climbing. 

Flinging ringings on the Rhine, 
And the people paused, admiring. 
As his bells went on aspiring 

To a melody divine. 

Gretchen sat and ceased her singing. 
When the belfry bells were swinging. 

For they gave her cruel pain ; 
And she sighed : " 0, lost, lost lover ! 
Make thine Autumn plainting over ! 

Speak mc tender once again." 



OAMBRINVS. 141 

But he heard her not, nor sought her, 
And she walked beside the water, 

Halting, songless and alone ; 
And the golden-grown Oetober 
Found her saddened, now, and sober, 

To the maples making moan. 

Later still, a fuller measure 

Gives he now to Teuton pleasure — 

More than all his tender bells — 
In a grotto, green, and shady, 
There the amber lager made he 

From the barley on the fells. 

Lager! bright and elear and ci'eamy — 
Lager, ripe and rare and dreamy — 

Oh, the eool, delieious draught! 
Never C:imo such royal liquor 
To his lips, as filled the beaker 

That the noble Kaiser quaft. 

Soon the court grew all unsteady 
From the foaming ewers heady — 

For the lords and ladies drank — 
And the Queen,* who tried to sttind hers. 
Dubbed Garabrinus, Count oi" Flanders — 

And they recognized his rank. 

*Accordin{2; to the mythic story, Garabrinus was made Count of 
Flanders, by the Kaiserin. 



142 GAMBRINUS. 

Eiches, honors on him thickened, 
Till the spirit in him quickened 

Underneath his merry chimes ; 
And his life ran leal and rarely 
In among the hins of barley, 

Like a symphony of rhymes. 

Never sought he now to fashion 
Any speech of burning passion, 

Underneath the maple bough ; 
But his days went on right lightly, 
And his lager cheered him nightly, 

Neither fraulin-bound nor frau. 

Gretchen prayed in vain some token 
Of the Autumn-fever, broken. 

In the fervid days of old — 
She was free to spurn the frothing 
" Of the kerl who counts for nothing — " 

Not the Count who counts the gold. 

Many/razfZi'ns, fair and gentle, 
Bowed their braids beneath his lintel, 

With the tender flush that tells ; 
But he sat and sipped his lager 
With the Kaiser or the burgh ei', 

And he listened to his bells. 



GAMBRINUS. 143 

By and by, the years were wasted, 
And his merry days had hasted 

Yery nearlj' to their close ; 
And iiis corner-clock was picking 
Out the seconds with its ticking, 

As ho fell into a doze. 

Sutan told the time as fairly 

As the brewer bought his barley; 

Not a measure less or more, 
Dnl}^ marked he all, and reckoned 
Every da}' and hour and second, 

From the thirty years before. 

" Hither, varlet ! slave ! imp ! Vinus ! 
Go, inform the Count Gambrinus, 

That the moon is on the Iiliine — 
That I wait him at the river, 
flowing free and full forever. 

For his soul is mine — is mine ! " 

Yinus went, and sharply tapping, 
Broke the stillness of his nap]>ing. 

As the door was open thrown — 
"You're the Devil's man, I aiignr, 
Take a seat and have some lager — 

I was sound asleep, I own." 



144 OAMBRINUS. 

" Quite correct," responded Vinus, 
I am here, Sir Count Gambrinus, 

On a mission from the Crown ; 
But, I very freely toast you. 
May the Devil spit and roast you 

Very done and very brown." 

" You 're facetious — try another," 
And the count began to smother 

From the sulphur in the air ; 
And he felt Belial's skewer, 
Though he filled the pewter ewer 
Much as if he did n't care. 

" By great Pluto ! I am thinking 
This is most delicious drinking, 
Full of life and laugh and song;" 
" Tr}'- some more, sir — my own making.' 
" "Would you care, sir, for my taking, 
Say — a dozen kegs along ? " 

" Care ! you ninnj' ! get 'em ready ; 
Do I look so stiff and steady? 

Fill my jjewter up again. " 
Here he drank and paused a little : 
" By the great red middle kittle 

Tou 're a o;rander man than Cain ! " 



GAMBRINUS. 145 

Then he filled and kept on filling, 
And the count was more than Avilling. 

For his moments now were gold. 
" Tiy another ! take the jiitcher, 
You will find it riper, richer — 

Do 3'on mind its being cold?" 

" Fill her up ! V,y Death ! I '11 stand her, 

Ma}' you prove a sal-a-man-dcr ! " 

Ilere he fairlj- toppled o'er; 

'« Fill the pitcher— fill her level, 

I'm as drouthy as tiie — Devil, 

Just a link", lit — tie more ! " 

Then Gamln-inus kept on pouring, 
Till his visitor was snoring, 

And liic night was wearing on ; 
" I will keep my vigil by him, 
I \\\\\ wait and watch and plj" him 

Till the breaking of the dawn." 

jU ;•; ;•; j'; ;!; 

On the morrow when the shiver 
Of the sunshine on the river 

Made the Jlhenish border bright, 
Yinus waked, and stared, and wondered : 
"Into what rare region blundered 

I from everlastini; niicht? " 



146 GAMBRINUS. 

" Have another mug of beer, sir, 
We are quiet, private liere, sir," 
Said Gambriuus, speaking low. 
" Who arc j'ou, sir ? Ijj old Harry ! 
He 's the chap I came to carry 
To the kingdom down below." 

" Take a mug to make you steady — 

I'm the man, and here, and ready," 

And he made a sober bow — 

" Ecady, are you ? Poor, frail human ! 

Why, I'd rather take a — woman 

Than to face the Devil now." 

" Get you there as best you can, sir, 
I will never go to ansAver 
For my failure in the trust." 
" Try another," said the brewer, 
Holding up a brimming ewer ; 
But he vanished in a gust. 

Then the years went on renewing, 
With the brewer at his brewing 

Still beneath his chiming bells ; 
And the sad, sore-hearted maiden. 
With a great regret o'erladen, 

Linirered still alona; the fells. 



GAMBRINUS. 147 

Then they crowned him King of Lager — 
All of Satan's scheming maugrc — 

And he grew to fullness grand ; 
And he drank : '• God save the Kaiser 1 
1 'm a better man and wiser, 

Light of heart and free of hand." 

Then, for Grctchen, pale and pretty, 
He was fdled at last with pity, 
And he thought to ease her pain ; 
'• I will wed her," said Gambi'inus — 
" To that i)leasant fv'llow, Vinus, 
Should he come this way again." 




THE GROVE AT ST. ELMO. 



^1 



HE Grove at St. Elmo, by moonlight, is fair — 
Cool shadows, greeu curtains, long grass, and 
fresh air — 
(I envy the man who is domiciled there) — 
Beneath it the city, dull, smoky, and gray, 
The river in glimpses, and hills either way. 
Those beautiful hills, tree-covered and blue, 
In the mist of the moriiing — and here, looking through 
The tangle of vines, as the shine of the moon 
Falls over the summits, all golden as June, 
Though late in the August — I wonder how long 
It will be till the true poet comes with his song — 
ThcRhine hath its castles of art ; its bridges, the Thames : 
The Hudson, its somnolent hollows — all names 
AVrit strongly in picture — but, standing alone. 
The cliffs of Kentucky are nearl}^ unknown. 
If Taylor should come to St. Elmo, and sketch 
The undulant range of its westermost stretch. 
And tell in his song, as he told of Cashmere, 
The eye of the world would be wandering here. 

(148) 



THE GROVE AT ST. ELMO. I49 

St. Elmo ! I sit in the cool of its vines, 
Strung to ii voice of the tcnclerest lines — 
Strung to the sweetest accord of a song — 
A heart-cry of passion — " How long? how long?" 
Over me glitters the white, bright star, 
Eiding the sky in the distance far, 
Eiding the sky and filling the sphere 
With a sense of light and a song of her. 
Vine after vine, goes out of the yard, 
Up to the curve of the gray Mansard 
Of the beautiful house — lines of art 
Over St. Elmo and over my heart. 
I hear in the grove, as I linger yet, 
The steady play of the parlor jet, 
The steady fall and the music-play 
Of a western window's fountain spray; 
I hear it fall in a tinkle brief, 
Over the ivy's waxen leaf; 
Over the cypress, frail and fair ; 
Over the cups of fuchsias rare ; 
Fresh and sweet, and pure and cool 
As the drip of the moss in the mountain pool. 

The grove of St. Elmo, laid leaf}^ and still, 
The moonlight fair — the grass-grown hill — 
1 could lie all night in the glow and gaze 
As the stars go down in the Eastern haze. 



THE PHOTOGEAPH.* 

4- 
I ND was there more of tenderness exprest 

Than ever yet my tongue had dared to speak, 

When I but took thy shadow to ray breast — 

When I but touched the semblance of thy cheek ? 

I do not know — I did not mean to wound — 
I could not soil the whiteness of thy life ; 

I see too clear the margin and the bound ; 
I hold too high the sacred name of wife. 

And yet, Irene — how sweet the name — it seems 
That all the currents of my soul are thine ; 

For I have called thee darling in my dreams, 
And felt the pressure of thy lips to mine. 

"'■■ The person for whom these verses were written had impulsively 
and boyishl^y kissed the photograi^h of a married lady, in her pres- 
ence, very naturally giving offense. The author was invoked to 
make an apolog}'' in rhyme, and the lady pronounced the apology 
far worse than the offense. I submit the question to the tribunal 
of the public. 

(150) 



TUE PHOTOGRAPH. 151 

Forgive rao, that I sin so in my sleep — 

I would not that the dream should ever end ; 

Nor would I have thee turn away and weep 
To find the guilty lover in th}^ friend. 

This life is but a shadow at the best, 
And every day is but a hope denied ; 

And I would take thee silent to my breast, 
And call thee darling, darling, if I died. 




NOTES. 

Jacob Brown, from which this little volume takes its name, 
is a rhyme designed to make laughter from its very broadness. 
It was sold to Mr. Frank Leslie several years ago, and appeared 
with handsome illustrations in one of his popular journals. 
I am much indebted to the wide circulation of his paper for its 
apparent popularity. 

True Version was written at the instance of a charming 
lady, who wondered why I had not employed the figure of the 
vine and the oak, so common to poetry, in representing man 
and woman. She had been widowed long enough to fully 
authorize me in expressing a belief that the vine generally killed 
the tree. So, at her suggestion, I wrote the lines down to the 
last stanza, which is due to her own spirit of Iiumor. 

The MiDXiGHT Rose and the Last Leaf were written to the 
lady referred to above. Many of her friends will recognize the 
direction of the Midnight Rose, from a familiar knowledge of 
her social economy. 

Metempsychosis was an impromptu to a lady friend, from the 
rare beauty of whose weird ideas the writer has drawn largely. 
The lines are printed without her consent, but he hopes not 
without her approval. 

The Lost Curl speaks for itself. The fair girl who sustained 
this serious misfortune, should be happy in the possession of 
many more natural attractions. 

(153) 



154 NOTES. 

CuLEX IN Carmine was written for a ladj who was good 
enough to pardon the ideal invasion of a sacred place for the 
rightful punishment which ensued. If the moral of this poem is 
at all obscure, the author will be happy to make it plain upon 
personal application. 

Parson Giles is printed here with timidity. Upon its first 
appearance — in questionable shape — it inspired a friendly but 
rather severe criticism from one well calculated to discriminate 
between a pleasant humor and a doubtful proprietj'. I refer to 
the cultivated and world-known Dr. H. A. M Henderson, in 
whose personal regard I desii'c always to be held blameless. In 
the controversy which ensued through the columns of the 
Courier-Journal and the Kentucky i^rce;K«5o;/, I am at liberty 
to say there was nothing acrimonious and that the relation of 
friendship has never been disturbed between us. I print the 
poem, not in defiance of his opinion, but in defense of my own; 
for as long as I remain conscious of no design to reflect upon 
the character of the cloth, the mere jarring of a few ill-selected 
words should not harm me in his opinion or in that of any 
individual of the class of society to which he belongs, and which 
I respect more sincerely than any other. 

Weeds is purely an imaginative poem, based upon the 
uncharitable view which many persons take of a real distress. 
It is ever a source of comment among gossiping people when a 
woman is left alone in the world, and kind-hearted people and 
ill-natured people are alike free in expression. 

Self-sacrifice approaches satire a little nearer than any 
other of these compositions, but it was not designed to be so, 
and I disclaim any attempt to cast reproach upon any venerable 
gentleman. 

Gambrinus is a mere metrical rendering of an old German 
story, found in a volume entitled "Myths and Myth-makers," by 
a graceful author whose name I have been ungraceful to forget. 



NOTES. 155 

May in Mason was written for the Centennial of corn-planting 
by Simon Kenton, in Mason county, at the celebration of wliich 
I was honored by an invitation to participate. 

• The Red Cross will be better understood and appreciated by 
those who Iiave been stricken with the bare bhadc, and who have 
participated with me in libations never to be forgotten. 

Pythian Lines were written for a brotherhood in whose 
bonds I am proud to be known. When tliey were announced as 
in hand for publication, an unscrupulous Bohemian, who is ever 
read}' to sacrifice a friend at the shrine of a witticism, took occasion 
to remark he was " glad to discover something fitJiy in this 
author's verses." 

Drawing it Fine was intended to point a moral as well as 
to inspire a smile. If both are not obvious, I have clearly missed 
an aim. 








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